LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVE^SmF 


Ex  Libris 
ISAAC  FOOT     i 


Beyond  the  Hills 
of  Dream 


By  W.  Wilfred  Campbell 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company 

dbc  OiDcr^ibc  prcjrf^,  Cnmbriboc 

1899 


COPYRIGHT,    1899,   BY   W.  WILFRED   CAMPBELL 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


To  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier,  P.  C, 
G.  C.  M.  G.,  Sy  whose  appreciation,  sympathy,  and 
friendship  the  author  has  been  aided  and  encouraged, 
this  volume  is  affectionately  dedicated. 

Ottawa,  August,  iSgg. 


CONTENTS 


BEYOND    THE    HILLS    OF    DREAM      . 
MORNING  ..... 

OUT    OF    POMPEII  .... 

MORNING    ON    THE    SHORE 

BEREAVEMENT    OF    THE    FIELDS 

A    WOOD    LYRIC  .... 

AN    AUGUST    REVERIE   .... 

IN    THE    SPRING    FIELDS      . 

THE    DRYAD  ..... 

PENIEL  .  .  . 

AFTERGLOW  ..... 

THE    TREE    OF    TRUTH 
GLORY    OF    THE    DYING    DAY 
SEPTEMBER    IN    THE    LAURENTIAN    HILLS 
LAZARUS     ...... 

THE    MOTHER  .... 

DUSK  ...... 

THE    LAST    PRAYER 

PAN    THE    FALLEN  .... 

THE    VENGEANCE    OF    SAKI 

LOVE  ...... 

VICTORIA  ..... 


5 
6 
8 

9 
»3 
IS 

>9 

20 
23 
30 

31 

36 

38 

39 
43 
48 

49 
S» 
55 
66 
67 


VI  CONTENTS 

ENGLAND  .......  74 

SEBASTIAN    CABOT     .....  78 

THE    WORLD-MOTHER  .  .  .  .86 

THE    LAZARUS    OF    EMPIRE            ...  9* 

IN    HOLYROOD      ......  94 

UNABSOLVED    ......  95 

HER    LOOK              ......  107 

THE    WAYFARER        .....  109 

TO    THE    OTTAWA  .  .  .  .  .116 

DEPARTURE     .             .             .             .             .             .  1 17 

PHAETHON             ......  I20 

THE    HUMMING    BEE            ....  129 

THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    FOAM      .             .              .  I3Z 

HOW    ONE    WINTER    CAME             .             .             .  136 


Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 

OVER  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 
Over  the  hills  of  dream. 
Beyond  the  walls  of  care  and  fate, 

Where  the  loves  and  memories  teem  j 
We  come  to  a  world  of  fancy  free, 
Where  hearts  forget  to  weep  ;  — 
Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 
Over  the  hills  of  sleep. 

Over  the  hills  of  care,  my  Love, 

Over  the  mountains  of  dread. 
We  come  to  a  valley  glad  and  vast. 

Where  we  meet  the  long-lost  dead  : 
And  there  the  gods  in  splendor  dwell, 

In  a  land  where  all  is  fair. 
Over  the  mountains  of  dread,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  care. 

Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  sleep  ;  — 
Could  wc  but  come  to  that  heart's  desire. 

Where  the  harvests  of  fancy  reap. 


Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 


Then  we  would  know  the  old  joys  and  hopes, 
The  longings  of  youth's  bright  gleam, 

Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 
Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

Yea,  there  the  sweet  old  years  have  rest, 

And  there  my  heart  would  be. 
Amid  the  glad  ones  loved  of  yore. 

At  the  sign  of  the  Fancy  Free  ; 
And  there  the  old  lips  would  repeat 

Earth's  memories  o'er  and  o'er. 
Over  the  mountains  of  might-have-been. 

Over  the  hills  of  yore. 

Unto  that  valley  of  dreams,  my  Love, 

If  we  could  only  go. 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  heart's  despair. 

The  hills  of  winter  and  snow. 
Then  we  would  come  to  those  happy  isles. 

Those  shores  of  blossom  and  wing. 
Over  the  mountains  of  waiting,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  spring. 

And  there  where  the  woods  are  scarlet  and  gold. 
And  the  apples  are  red  on  the  tree, 

The  heart  of  Autumn  is  never  old 
In  that  country  where  we  would  be. 


Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 


And  how  would  we  come  to  that  land,  my  Love  ? 

Follow  the  midnight  stars, 
That  swim  and  gleam  in  a  milk-white  stream, 

Over  the  night's  white  bars. 

Or  follow  the  trail  of  the  sunset  red 

That  beacons  the  dying  deeps 
Of  day's  wild  borders  down  the  edge 

Of  silence,  where  evening  sleeps  ; 
Or  take  the  road  that  the  morning  wakes. 

When  he  whitens  his  first  rosebeam, 
Over  the  mountains  of  glory,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

Sometime,  sometime,  we  will  go,  my  Love, 

When  winter  loosens  to  spring. 
And  all  the  spirits  of  Joy  are  ajog. 

After  the  wild-bird's  wing,  — 
When  winter  and  sorrow  have  opened  their  doors 

To  set  love's  prisoners  free. 
Over  the  mountains  of  woe,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dree. 

And  when  we  reach  there  we  will  know 

The  faces  we  knew  of  yore. 
The  lips  that  kissed,  the  hands  that  clasped, 

When  numory  loosens  her  store, 


Beyond  the  Hills  of  Dream 


And  we  will  drink  to  the  long  dead  years, 
In  that  inn  of  the  golden  gleam, 

Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 
Over  the  hills  of  dream. 

And  all  the  joys  we  missed,  my  Love, 

And  all  the  hopes  we  knew. 
The  dreams  of  life  we  dreamed  in  vain, 

When  youth's  red  blossoms  blew ; 
And  all  the  hearts  that  throbbed  for  us, 

In  the  past  so  sunny  and  fair, 
We  will  meet  and  greet  in  that  golden  land. 

Over  the  hills  of  care. 

Over  the  mountains  of  sleep,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  dream. 
Beyond  the  walls  of  care  and  fate. 

Where  the  loves  and  memories  teem, 
We  come  to  a  land  of  fancy  free. 

Where  hearts  forget  to  weep. 
Over  the  mountains  of  dream,  my  Love, 

Over  the  hills  of  sleep. 


Morning 

WHEN  I  behold  how  out  of  ruined  night 
Filled  with   all  weirds   of  haunted   ancient- 
ness, 
And  dreams  and  phantasies  of  pale  distress. 
Is  builded,  beam  by  beam,  the  splendid  light, 
The  opalescent  glory,  gem  bedight, 
Of  dew-emblazoned  morning;  when  I  know 
Such    wondrous    hopes,    such    luminous    beauties 

grow 
From  out  earth's  shades  of  sadness  and  affright ; 

O,  then,  my  heart,  amid  thy  questioning  fear, 
Dost  thou  not  whisper  :   "  He  who  buildeth  thus 
From  wrecks  of  dark  such  wonders  at  his  will, 
Can  re-create  from  out  death's  night  for  us 
The  marvels  of  a  morning  gladder  still 
Than  ever  trembled  into  beauty  here  ?  " 
S 


Out  of  Pompeii 

SHE  lay,  face  downward,  on  her  bended  arm, 
In  this  her  new,  sweet  dream  of  human  bliss, 
Her  heart  within  her  fearful,  fluttering,  warm. 
Her  lips  yet  pained  with  love's  first   timorous 
kiss. 
She  did  not  note  the  darkening  afternoon. 

She  did  not  mark  the  lowering  of  the  sky 
O'er  that  great  city.      Earth  had  given  its  boon 
Unto  her  lips,  love  touched  her  and  passed  by. 

In  one  dread  moment  all  the  sky  grew  dark. 

The  hideous  rain,  the  panic,  the  red  rout. 
Where    love  lost  love,  and   all   the   world   might 
mark 

The  city  overwhelmed,  blotted  out 
Without  one  cry,  so  quick  oblivion  came. 

And  life  passed  to  the  black  where  all  forget ; 
But  she  —  we  know  not  of  her  house  or  name  — 

In  love's  sweet  musings  doth  lie  dreaming  yet. 

The  dread  hell  passed,  the  ruined  world  grew  still, 
And  the  great  city  passed  to  nothingness  : 


Out  of  Pompeii  7 

The  ages  went  and  mankind  worked  its  will. 

Then  men  stood  still  amid  the  centuries'  press. 
And  in  the  ash-hid  ruins  opened  bare, 

As  she  lay  down  in  her  shamed  loveliness. 
Sculptured  and  frozen,  late  they  found  her  there. 

Image  of  love  'mid  all  that  hideousness. 

Her  head,  face  downward,  on  her  bended  arm, 

Her  single  robe  that  showed  her  shapely  form, 
Her  wondrous  fate  love  keeps  divinely  warm 

Over  the  centuries,  past  the  slaying  storm. 
The  heart  can  read  in  writings  time  hath  left, 

That  linger  still  through  death's  oblivion; 
And  in  this  waste  of  life  and  light  bereft. 

She  brings  again  a  beauty  that  had  gone. 

And  if  there  be  a  day  when  all  shall  wake. 

As  dreams  the  hoping,  doubting  human  heart. 
The  dim  forgetfulness  of  death  will  break 

For  her  as  one  who  sleeps  with  lips  apart; 
And  did  God  call  her  suddenly,  I  know 

She  'd  wake  as  morning  wakened  by  the  thrush. 
Feel  that  red  kiss  across  the  centuries  glow. 

And  make  all  heaven  rosier  by  her  blush. 


Morning  on  the  Shore 

THE  lake  is  blue  with  morning  ;  and  the  sky 
Sweet,    clear,    and    burnished    as    an     orient 
pearl. 
High  in  its  vastness  scream  and  skim  and  whirl 
White  gull-flocks  where  the  gleaming  beaches  die 
Into  dim  distance,  where  great  marshes  lie. 

Far  in  ashore  the  woods  are  warm  with  dreams, 
The  dew-wet  road  in  ruddy  sunlight  gleams. 
The  sweet,  cool   earth,  the   clear  blue  heaven  on 
high. 

Across  the  morn  a  carolling  school-boy  goes. 
Filling  the  world  with  youth  to  heaven's  stair  ; 

Some  chattering  squirrel  answers  from  his  tree ; 
But  down  beyond  the  headland,  where  ice-floes 
Are  great  in  winter,  pleading  in  mute  prayer, 

A  dead,  drowned  face  starts  up  immutably. 


Bereavement  of  the  Fields 

IN    MEMORY    OF    ARCHIBALD    LAMPMAN,  WHO    DIED 
FEBRUARY     10,   1899 

OOFT  fall  the  February  snows,  and  soft 

^   Falls  on  my  heart  the  snow  of  wintry  pain ; 

For  never  more,  by  wood  or  field  or  croft, 

Will  he  we  knew  walk  with  his  loved  again  ; 

No  more,  with  eyes  adream  and  soul  aloft. 

In  those  high  moods  where  love  and  beauty  reign, 

Greet  his  familiar  fields,  his  skies  without  a  stain. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  deep, 

Like  downy  pinions  from  the  moulting  breast 

Of  all  the  mothering  sky,  round  his  hushed  sleep. 

Flutter  a  million  loves  upon  his  rest. 

Where   once  his  well-loved  flowers  were  fain   to 

peep. 
With  adder-tongue  and  waxen  petals  prcst, 
In    young    spring    evenings    reddening    down    the 

west. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  hushed 
Seems  life's  loud  action,  all  its  strife  removed, 
9 


10  Bereavement  of  the  Fields 

Afar,  remote,  where  grief  itself  seems  crushed, 

And  even  hope  and  sorrow  are  reproved ; 

For    he    whose    cheek    erstwhile    with    hope    was 

flushed. 
And  by  the  gentle  haunts  of  being  moved. 
Hath  gone  the  way  of  all  he  dreamed  and  loved. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  lost, 
This  tender  spirit  gone  with  scarce  a  tear, 
Ere,  loosened  from  the  dungeons  of  the  frost, 
Wakens  with  yearnings  new  the  enfranchised  year. 
Late  winter-wizened,  gloomed,  and  tempest-tost ; 
And  Hesper's  gentle,  delicate  veils  appear. 
When  dream  anew  the  days  of  hope  and  fear. 

And  Mother  Nature,  she  whose  heart  is  fain. 
Yea,  she  who  grieves  not,  neither  faints  nor  fails, 
Building  the  seasons,  she  will  bring  again 
March  with  rudening  madness  of  wild  gales, 
April  and  her  wraiths  of  tender  rain, 
And  all  he  loved,  —  this  soul  whom  memory  veils. 
Beyond  the  burden  of  our  strife  and  pain. 

Not  his  to  wake  the  strident  note  of  song. 
Nor  pierce  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart. 
Those  tragic  wells,  remote,  of  might  and  wrong; 
But  rather,  with  those  gentler  souls  apart, 


Bereavement  of  the  Fields  II 

He  dreamed  like  his  own  summer  days  along, 
Filled  with  the  beauty  born  of  his  own  heart, 
Sufficient  in  the  sweetness  of  his  song. 

Outside  this  prison-house  of  all  our  tears, 
Enfranchised  from  our  sorrow  and  our  wrong. 
Beyond  the  failure  of  our  days  and  years. 
Beyond  the  burden  of  our  saddest  song, 
He    moves    with    those    whose    music    filled    his 

ears, 
And  claimed  his  gentle  spirit  from  the  throng, — 
Wordsworth,  Arnold,  Keats,  high  masters  of  his 

song. 

Like  some  rare  Pan  of  those  old  Grecian  days. 
Here  in  our  hours  of  deeper  stress  reborn. 
Unfortunate  thrown  upon  life's  evil  ways, 
His  inward  ear  heard  ever  that  satyr  horn 
From  Nature's  lips  reverberate  night  and  morn. 
And  fled  from  men  and  all  their  troubled  maze. 
Standing  apart,  with  sad,  incurious  gaze. 

And  now,  untimely  cut,  like  some  sweet  flower 
Plucked  in  the  early  summer  of  its  iirinie. 
Before  it  reached  the  fulness  of  its  dower. 
He  withers  in  the  morning  of  our  time; 
Leaving  behind  him,  like  a  summer  shower, 


1 2  Bereavement  of  the  Fields 

A  fragrance  of  earth's  beauty,  and  the  chime 
Of  gentle  and  imperishable  rhyme. 

Songs  in  our  ears  of  winds  and  flowers  and  buds 
And  gentle  loves  and  tender  memories 
Of  Nature's  sweetest  aspects,  her  pure  moods. 
Wrought  from  the  inward  truth  of  intimate  eyes 
And  delicate  ears  of  him  who  harks  and  broods, 
And,  nightly  pondering,  daily  grows  more  wise, 
And  dreams  and  sees  in  rnighty  solitudes. 

Soft  fall  the  February  snows,  and  soft 
He  sleeps  in  peace  upon  the  breast  of  her 
He  loved  the  truest ;  where,  by  wood  and  croft, 
The  wintry  silence  folds  in  fleecy  blur 
About  his  silence,  while  in  glooms  aloft 
The  mighty  forest  fathers,  without  stir. 
Guard  well  the  rest  of  him,  their  rare  sweet  wor- 
shipper. 


A  Wood  Lyric 


INTO  the  stilly  woods  I  go, 
Where  the  shades  are  deep  and  the  wind-flow- 
ers blow, 
And  the  hours  are  dreamy  and  lone  and  long, 
And  the  power  of  silence  is  greater  than  song. 
Into  the  stilly  woods  I  go. 

Where  the  leaves  are  cool  and  the  wind-flowers 
blow. 

When  I  go  into  the  stilly  woods. 
And  know  all  the  flowers  in  their  sweet,  shy  hoods, 
The  tender  leaves  in  their  shimmer  and  sheen 
Of  darkling  shadow,  diaphanous  green. 
In  those  haunted  halls  where  my  footstep  falls, 
Like  one  who  enters  cathedral  walls, 
A  spirit  of  beauty  floods  over  nic. 
As  over  a  swimmer  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
That  strengthens  and  glories,  refreshens  and  fills. 
Till  all  mine  inner  heart  wakens  and  thrills 
With  a  new  and  a  glad  and  a  sweet  delight. 
And  a  sense  of  the  infinite  out  of  sight. 
Of  the  great  unknown  that  we  may  not  know, 
»3 


14  A  Wood  Lyric 

But  only  feel  with  an  inward  glow 
When  into  the  great,  glad  woods  we  go. 

O  life-worn  brothers,  come  with  me 

Into  the  wood's  hushed  sanctity. 

Where   the   great,   cool    branches   are  heavy  with 

June, 
And  the  voices  of  summer  are  strung  in  tune; 
Come  with  me,  O  heart  outworn. 
Or  spirit  whom  life's  brute-struggles  have  torn, 
Come,  tired  and  broken  and  wounded  feet. 
Where  the  walls  are  greening,  the  floors  are  sweet, 
The  roofs  are  breathing  and  heaven's  airs  meet. 

Come,  wash  earth's  grievings  from  out  of  the  face, 
The  tear  and  the  sneer  and  the  warfare's  trace. 
Come  where  the  bells  of  the  forest  are  ringing. 
Come  where  the  oriole's  nest  is  swinging. 
Where  the  brooks  are  foaming  in  amber  pools, 
The  mornings  are  still  and  the  noonday  cools. 
Cast  off  earth's  sorrows  and  know  what  I  know, 
When  into  the  glad,  deep  woods  I  go. 


An  August  Reverie 

THERE  is  an  autumn  sense  subdues  the  air, 
Though  it  is  August  and  the  season  still 
A  part  of  summer,  and  the  woodlands  fair. 

I  hear  it  in  the  humming  of  the  mill, 
I  feel  it  in  the  rustling  of  the  trees. 
That  scarcely  shiver  in  the  passing  breeze. 

'T  is  but  a  touch  of  Winter  ere  his  time, 

A  presaging  of  sleep  and  icy  death, 
When  skies  are  rich  and  fields  are  in  their  prime. 

And  heaven  and  earth  commingle  in  a  breath  :  — 
When  hazy  airs  are  stirred  with  gossamer  wings. 
And  in  shorn  fields  the  shrill  cicada  sings. 

So  comes  the  slow  revolving  of  the  year. 
The  glory  of  nature  ripening  to  decay. 
When  in  those  paths,  by  which,  through  loves  aus- 
tere. 
All    men    and    beasts    and    blossoms    find    their 
way. 
By  steady  casings  of  the  spirit's  dream. 
From  sunlight  past  the  pallid  starlight's  beam. 


1 6  An  August  Reverie 

Nor  should  the  spirit  sorrow  as  it  passes, 
Declining  slowly  by  the  heights  it  came; 

We  are  but  brothers  to  the  birds  and  grasses. 
In  our  brief  coming  and  our  end  the  same : 

And  though  we  glory,  god-like  in  our  day. 

Perchance  some  kindred  law  their  lives  obey. 

There  are  a  thousand  beauties  gathered  round. 

The  sounds  of  waters  falling  over-night. 
The  morning  scents   that   steamed  from  the  fresh 
ground. 
The  hair-like  streaming  of  the  morning  light 
Through  early   mists  and  dim,  wet  woods  where 

brooks 
Chatter,  half-seen,  down  under  mossy  nooks. 

The  ragged  daisy  starring  all  the  fields. 
The  buttercup  abrim  with  pallid  gold, 

The  thistle  and  burr-flowers  hedged  with  prickly 
shields. 
All  common  weeds  the  draggled  pastures  hold. 

With  shrivelled  pods  and  leaves,  are  kin  to  me. 

Like-heirs  of  earth  and  her  maturity. 

They  speak  a  silent  speech  that  is  their  own. 
These  wise  and  gentle  teachers  of  the  grass ; 

And  when  their  brief  and  common  days  are  flown, 
A  certain  beauty  from  the  year  doth  pass  :  — 


An  August  Reverie  17 

A  beauty  of  whose  light  no  eye  can  tell, 
Save  that  it  went ;  and  my  heart  knew  it  well. 

I  may  not  know  each  plant  as  some  men  know 
them, 
As  children  gather  beasts  and  birds  to  tame; 
But  I  went  'mid    them    as   the   winds   that   blow 
them, 
P'rom    childhood's    hour,   and    loved  without   a 
name. 
There  is  more  of  beauty  in  a  field  of  weeds 
Than  in  all  blooms  the  hothouse  garden  breeds. 

For  they  are  nature's  children  ;   in  their  faces 
I  see  that  sweet  obedience  to  the  sky 

That  marks  these  dwellers  of  the  wilding  places, 
Who  with  the  season's  being  live  and  diej 

Knowing  no  love  but  of  the  wind  and  sun. 

Who  still  are  nature's  when  their  life  is  done. 

They  are  a  part  of  all  the  haze-filled  hours. 

The  happy,  happy  world  all  drenched  with  light, 

The  far-off,  chiming  click-clack  of  the  mowers. 
And  yon  blue  hills  whose  mists  elude  my  sight ; 

And  they  to  me  will  ever  bring  in  dreams 

Far     mist-clad     heights     and     brimmiiig     rain-fed 
streams. 


Jn  August  Reverie 


In  this  dream  August  air,  whose  ripened  leaf. 

Pausing  before  it  puts  death's  glories  on, 
Deepens  its  green,  and  the  half-garnered  sheaf 
Gladdens    the    haze-filled    sunlight,    love    hath 
gone 
Beyond  the  material,  trembling  like  a  star. 
To  those  sure  heights  where  all  thought's  glories 
are. 

And  Thought,  that  is  the  greatness  of  this  earth, 
And  man's  most  inmost  being,  soars  and  soars. 

Beyond  the  eye's  horizon's  outmost  girth. 
Garners  all  beauty,  on  all  mystery  pores : 

Like  some  ethereal  fountain  in  its  flow. 

Finds  heavens  where  the  senses  may  not  go. 


In  the  Spring  Fields 

^  I  **HERE  dwells  a  spirit  in  the  budding  year  — 

■*-      As  motherhood  doth  beautify  the  face  — 
That  even  lends  these  barren  glebes  a  grace, 
And  fills  gray  hours  with  beauty  that  were  drear 
And  bleak  when   the   loud,  storming  March  was 

here  : 
A  glamour  that  the  thrilled  heart  dimly  traces 
In  swelling  boughs  and  soft,  wet,  windy  spaces, 
And    sunlands   where    the    chattering    birds   make 
cheer. 

I  thread  the  uplands  where  the  wind's  footfalls 
Stir  leaves  in  gusty  hollows,  autumn's  urns. 
Seaward  the  river's  shining  breast  expands. 
High  in  the  windy  pines  a  lone  crow  calls. 
And  far  below  some  patient  ploughman  turns 
His  great  black  furrow  over  steaming  lands. 
»9 


The  Dryad 


HER    soul    was    sown    with   the   seed    of  the 
tree 
Of  old  when  the  earth  was  young, 
And  glad  with  the  light  of  its  majesty 

The  light  of  her  beautiful  being  upgrew. 
And  the  winds  that  swept  over  land  and  sea, 
And  like  a  harper  the  great  boughs  strung, 
Whispered  her  all  things  new. 

The  tree  reached  forth  to  the  sun  and  the  wind 

And  towered  to  heaven  above. 
But  she  was  the  soul  that  under  its  rind 

Whispered  its  joy  through  the  whole^  wood's 
span, 
Sweet  and  glad  and  tender  and  kind ; 

For  her  love  for  the  tree  was  a  holier  love 

Than  the  love  of  woman  for  man. 

The  seasons  came  and  the  seasons  went 

And  the  woodland  music  rang ; 
And  under  her  wide  umbrageous  tent, 

Hidden  forever  from  mortal  eye. 


The  Dryad  21 

She  sang  earth's  beauty  and  wonderment. 

But  men  never  knew  the  spirit  that  sang 
This  music  too  wondrous  to  die. 

Only  nature,  forever  young, 

And  her  children,  forever  true, 
Knew  the  beauty  of  her  who  sung 

And  her  tender,  glad  love  for  the  tree; 
Till  on  her  music  the  wild  hawk  hung 

From  his  eyrie  high  in  the  blue 

To  drink  her  melody  free. 

And  the  creatures  of  earth  would  creep  from  their 
haunts 

To  stare  with  their  wilding  eyes, 
To  hearken  those  rhythms  of  earth's  romance. 

That  never  the  ear  of  mortal  hath  heard  ; 
Till  the  elfin  squirrels  would  caper  and  dance. 

And  the  hedgehog's  sleepy  and  shy  surprise 

Would  grow  to  the  thought  of  a  bird. 

And   the  pale  wood-flowers   from   their  cradles   of 
dew 
Where  they  rocked  them  the  whole  night  long, 
While  the  dark  wheeled  round  and  the  stars  looked 
through 
Into  the  great  wood's  slumbrous  breast. 


22  The  Dryad 

Till  the  gray  of  the  night  like  a  mist  outblew  ; 
Hearkened  the  piercing  joy  of  her  song 
That  sank  like  a  star  in  their  rest. 

But  all  things  come  to  an  end  at  last 

When  the  wings  of  being  are  furled. 
And  there  blew  one  night  a  maddening  blast 

From  those  wastes  where  ships  dismantle  and 
drown, 
That  ravaged  the  forest  and  thundered  past; 

And  in  the  wreck  of  that  ruined  world 

The  dryad's  tree  went  down. 

When  the  pale  stars  dimmed  their  tapers  of  gold, 

And  over  the  night's  round  rim 
The  day  rose  sullen  and  ragged  and  cold, 

Over  that  wind-swept,  desolate  wild. 
Where  the  huge  trunks  lay  like  giants  of  old, 

Prone,  slain  on  some  battlefield,  silent  and  grim; 

The  wood-creatures,  curious,  mild. 

Searching  their  solitudes,  found  her  there 

Like  a  snowdrift  out  in  the  morn  ; 
One  lily  arm  round  the  beech-trunk  bare. 

One  curved,  cold,  under  her  elfin  head. 
With  the  beechen  shine  in  her  nut-brown  hair. 

And  the  pallor  of  dawn  on  her  face,  love-lorn, 

Beautiful,  passionless,  dead. 


Peniel 

TN  a  place  of  the  mountains  of  Edom, 
-*■  And  a  waste  of  the  midnight  shore. 
When  the  evil  winds  of  the  desolate  hills 

Beat  with  an  iron  roar, 
With  the  pitiless  black  of  the  desert  behind. 

And  the  wrath  of  a  brother  before  :  — 

In  a  place  of  the  ancient  mountains. 
And  the  time  of  the  midnight  dead. 

Where  the  great  wide  skies  of  his  father's  land 
Loomed  vastly  overhead, 

Jacob,  the  son  of  the  ancient  of  days. 
Stood  out  alone  with  his  dread 

And  there  in  that  place  of  darkness. 

When  the  murk  of  the  night  grew  dim, 

Under  the  wide  roof-tree  of  the  world 
An  unknown  stood  with  him, — 

Whether  a  devil  or  angel  of  God, — 
With  presence  hidden  and  grim. 

And  spake  —  "Thou  Son  of  Isaac, 
On  mountain  and  stream  and  tree, 

21 


24  Peniel 

And  this  wide  ruined  world  of  night, 

Take  thy  last  look  with  me : 
For  out  of  the  darkness  have  I  come, 

To  die,  or  conquer  thee." 

Then  Jacob  made  stern  answer, — 

"  Until  thy  face  I  see, 
Though  I  strive  with  life  or  wrestle  with  death. 

Yet  will  I  strive  with  thee  : 
For  better  it  were  to  die  this  hour 

Than  from  my  fate  to  flee. 

"  Yea,  speak  thy  name  or  show  thy  face. 

Else  shall  I  conquer  thy  will." 
But  the  other  closed  with  an  iron  shock. 

Till  it  seemed  the  stars  so  still, 
With  the  lonely  night,  in  a  wheeling  mist, 

Went  round  by  river  and  hill. 

And  Jacob  strove  as  the  dying  strive. 

In  the  woe  of  that  awful  place. 
Yea,  he  fought  with  the  desperate  soul  of  one 

Who  fights  in  evil  case: 
And  he  called  aloud  in  the  pauses  dread, 

"  O  give  me  sight  of  thy  face. 

*■'-  Yea,  speak  thy  name,  what  art  thou,  spirit. 
Or  man,  or  devil,  or  God  ? 


Peniel  25 

Yea,  speak  thy  name  ! "      But  no  voice  came. 

From  heaven  or  deep  or  sod  : 
And  the  spirit  of  Jacob  clave  to  his  flesh 

As  the  dews  in  a  dried-up  clod. 

Then  they  rocked  and  sv^^ayed  as  Autumn  storms 

Do  rock  the  centuried  trees  : 
Yea,  swayed  and  rocked  :   that  other  strove, 

And  drave  him  to  his  knees. 
And  Jacob  felt  the  wide  world's  gleam 

And  the  roar  of  unknown  seas. 

Like  to  a  mighty  storm  it  seemed, 

There  thundered  in  his  ears : 
Then  a  mighty  rushing  water  teemed 

Like  brooks  of  human  tears. 
And  opened  the  channels  of  his  spent  heart. 

And  washed  away  his  fears. 

And  he  rose  with  the  last  despairing  strength 

Of  life's  tenacity. 
And  he  swore  by  the  blood  of  man  in  him. 

And  God's  eternity, 
"  'T  is  my  life,  my  very  soul  he  wants; 

That  he  shall  not  have  of  nic." 

Then  his  heart  grew  strong  and  he  felt  the  earth 
Grow  iron  beneath  his  feet, 


26  Pen'tel 

And  he  drank  the  balmy  airs  of  night 

Like  rose-blooms  rare  and  sweet : 
And  his  soul  rose  up  as  a  welling  brook, 

His  life  or  death  to  meet. 

And  he  spake  to  that  unknown  enemy  there, — 

"  By  yon  white  stars  I  vow, 
That  be  thou  devil  or  angel  or  man, 

Thou  canst  not  conquer  me  now ; 
For  I  feel  new  lease  of  life  and  strength 

In  this  sweat  that  beads  my  brow." 

They  locked  once  more  ;  the  stars,  it  seemed 

Went  round  in  dances  dim, 
Where  the  great  white  watchers  over  each  hill, 

With  the  black  night,  seemed  to  swim  ; 
But  Jacob  knew  his  enemy  now. 

Could  nevermore  conquer  him. 

Yea,  still  with  grip  of  death  they  strove, 

In  iron  might,  until, 
Planet  by  planet,  the  great  stars  dropped 

Down  over  the  westward  hill : 
And  Jacob  stood  like  one  who  stands 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  will. 

Then  at  that  late,  last  midnight  hour. 
When  the  little  birds  rejoice, 


Peniel  27 

And  out  of  the  lands  of  sleep  life  looms 

With  the  rustle  of  day's  annoys, 
That  other  spake  as  one  who  speaks 

With  a  sad  despairing  voice, 

And  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  met  my  fate, 

Loosen,  and  let  me  go  ; 
For  I  have  striven  with  thee  in  vain, 

Till  my  heart  is  water  and  woe." 
*'  Nay,  nay,"  cried  Jacob,  "  we  strive,  we  twain. 

Till  the  mists  of  dawning  blow." 

Then  spake  that  other,  "  I  hate  thee  not, 

My  spirit  is  spent,  alas. 
Thou  art  a  very  lion  of  men ; 

Release,  and  let  me  pass  ; 
For  thou  hast  my  heart  and  sinews  ground 

As  ocean  grinds  his  grass." 

Then  answered  Jacob,  "  Nay,  nay,  thou  liar. 

This  is  the  lock  of  death  : 
For  thee  or  me  it  must  be  thus. 

The  will  of  my  being  saith  ; 
Thou  man  or  devil,  I  hold  thcc  hci3 

Unto  thy  latest  breath  ; 

"  For  I  do  feel  in  thee  I  hold 
My  life's  supremcst  hour  : 


28  Peniel 

I  would  as  lief  let  all  life  slip 
As  thee  from  out  my  power. 

Until  I  gaze  on  thy  hid  face, 
And  read  my  spirit's  dower. 

"  Yea,  show  thy  face  or  who  thou  art. 

Or,  man  or  angel  or  fiend, 
I  rend  thy  being  fold  from  fold. 

And  scatter  thee  to  the  wind." 
Then  they  twain  rocked  as  passions  rock. 

When  madness  wrecks  the  mind. 

For  each  now  knew  this  was  the  end. 

And  one  of  them  must  die, 
Then  Jacob  heaved  a  mighty  breath. 

With  a  last  great  sobbing  cry. 
And  gripped  that  other  in  a  grip 

Like  the  grip  of  those  who  die. 

For  he  felt  once  more  his  spirit  faint. 
And  his  strong  knees  quake  beneath. 

And  it  seemed  the  mountains  flamed  all  red 
At  the  coming  of  his  breath  ; 

And  he  prayed  if  he  were  conquered  now 
That  this  might  be  his  death. 

The  tight  grip  eased,  the  huge  form  slipped 
Back  earthward  with  a  moan, 


Peniel  29 

And  Jacob  stood  there  'neath  the  dawn, 
Like  one  new-changed  to  stone; 

For  in  the  face  of  the  prone  man  there 
He  read  his  very  own. 

Not  as  man  sees  who  reads  his  fellows 

In  the  dim  crowds  that  pass  : 
Nor  as  a  soul  may  know  himself, 

Who  looks  within  a  glass  :  — 
But  as  God  sees,  who  kneads  the  clay, 

And  parts  it  from  the  mass. 

And  over  his  head  the  great  day  rose 

And  gloried  leaf  and  wing. 
And  the  little  boughs  began  to  tremble, 

And  the  little  birds  to  sing; 
But  on  his  face  there  shone  a  strength 
Like  the  power  of  a  new-crowned  king. 


Afterglow 


A   FTER  the  clangor  of  battle, 
"*■  -^   There  comes  a  moment  of  rest, 
And  the  simple  hopes  and  the  simple  joys 
And  the  simple  thoughts  are  best. 

After  the  victor's  paean, 

After  the  thunder  of  gun. 

There  comes  a  lull  that  must  come  to  all 

Before  the  set  of  the  sun. 

Then  what  is  the  happiest  memory  ? 
Is  it  the  foe's  defeat  ? 
Is  it  the  splendid  praise  of  a  world 
That  thunders  by  at  your  feet  ? 

Nay,  nay,  to  the  life-worn  spirit 
The  happiest  thoughts  are  those 
That  carry  us  back  to  the  simple  joys 
And  the  sweetness  of  life's  repose. 

A  simple  love  and  a  simple  trust 
And  a  simple  duty  done 
Are  truer  torches  to  light  to  death 
Than  a  whole  world's  victories  won. 
30 


The  Tree  of  Truth 

THERE  grows  a  mighty  centuried  tree. 
Its  roots  athwart  the  world, 
Its  branches  wide  as  earth's  wide  girth 
By  thousand  dews  impearled. 

Its  top  is  hoary,  its  wide  boughs 

Reach  out  to  heaven  above, 
Its  roots  are  knowledge,  and  its  sap 

The  yearning  heart  of  love. 

Men  hack  its  branches,  curb  its  roots, 

To  trim  it  to  their  ken. 
Or  hide  its  green  in  poisonous  vines 

From  evil's  grimmest  fen. 

But  evermore  while  ages  wane. 

And  centuries  rise  and  die. 
Through  dark,  through  light,  through  good  and  ill, 

Its  saps  the  years  defy. 

For  deeper  in  the  heart  of  things. 

And  older  far  than  time, 
Its  roots  are  fixed  in  those  sure  deeps 

From  which  the  centuries  climb. 
3< 


32  The  Tree  of  Truth 

Ages  ago  its  girth  was  great ; 

Its  boughs  o'er  earth's  wide  lands  ; 
All  peoples  gathered  'neath  its  glades 

Where  now  old  ruin  stands. 

But  form  and  custom  staled  its  green 

And  curbed  it  into  bounds 
Of  pruning  hooks  and  greedy  walls 

That  hemmed  its  sacred  rounds. 

And  vast  and  wide  where  once  to  all 

Its  radiant  leaves  were  free, 
Far  peoples  paid,  with  earth's  red  gold, 

Its  sacred  home  to  see. 

And  summer  by  summer,  yea,  year  by  year, 

Still  lower  shrank  its  head. 
Till  shallow  deceit  and  life's  despair 

Declared  its  heart  was  dead. 

Then  men  cried,  "  We  will  hew  it  down, 

And  build  from  out  its  wood 
A  temple  rare  wherein  to  teach 

Us  memory  of  its  good. 

"  And  'neath  its  shelter  we  will  keep, 
To  hold  the  ages'  youth, 


The  Tree  of  Truth  33 

'Those  holy  dreams  our  fathers  drew 
From  out  the  tree  of  truth." 

They  hacked  and  hewed,  they  sawed  and  planed, 

They  lopped  its  branches  wide, 
Till  shorn  and  bare  the  old  tree  stood 

To  every  wind  and  tide. 

And  round  its  scathed  and  ruined  trunk, 

Whence  life  had  fled  aloof, 
They  built  a  temple  carved  and  arched 

From  floor  to  groined  roof. 

And  reared  a  shrine  where  art  was  all 

The  end  of  human  pain, 
Till  a  sprout  shot  forth  from  the  old  tree's  trunk 

And  burst  its  walls  amain  ; 

A  sturdy,  wayward,  wilding  growth. 
That  mocked  their  maimed  dream 

Of  life  and  truth  in  legend  carved 
On  groined  arch  and  beam. 

Men  stood  amazed.     The  teachers  cried, 

"  Behold  the  curse  of  earth  ! 
Its  life  must  die  or  all  our  words 

Are  but  as  nothing  worth." 


34  The  Tree  of  Truth 

"Nay,  nay,"  cried  others,  "but  let  it  stand, 
Perchance  a  miracle." 
Then  straight  about  its  burgeoning  boughs 
Old  bloody  battles  fell. 

Wild  clamor  an^  clash  of  fiery  arms, 

The  old  against  the  new. 
Mad  hosts  arrayed  with  banner  and  blade, 

Where  war's  wild  trumpets  blew. 

But  as  they  strove  by  gates  of  blood. 
With  glad  unconscious  youth. 

Higher  and  wider  skyward  climbed 
The  newer  tree  of  truth. 

And  blithe  within  its  boughs  their  nests 

The  birds  of  heaven  made. 
While  at  its  foot  mid  earth's  old  ruins, 

The  happy  children  played. 

And  form  and  cant  were  swept  away. 
While  under  its  dream  sublime. 

Men  drank  anew  'neath  heaven's  arch 
From  nature  for  a  time. 

Yea,  still  it  spreads  its  antres  vast. 
Through  peace  and  clash  of  arms. 


The  Tree  of  Truth  35 

And  blossoms  brave  and  blithe  and  free, 
O'er  all  earth's  shrunk  alarms. 

And  still  men  battle  to  destroy 

The  living  for  the  dead 
Old  ruined  trunk  of  that  which  towers 

Its  glories  overhead : 

And  strive  for  art's  distorted  ways. 
While  from  earth's  heart  of  youth, 

Higher  and  wider  heavenward  spreads 
The  ancient  tree  of  truth. 


Glory  of  the  Dying  Day 

r^  GLORY  of  the  dying  day 

^^   That  into  darkness  fades  away ! 
O  violet  splendor  melting  down 
By  river  bend  o'er  tower  and  town  ! 
O  glory  of  the  dying  day 
That  into  darkness  fades  away  ! 

O  splendor  of  the  gates  of  night! 

O  majesty  of  dying  light 

That  all  a  molten  glory  glows, 

Till  purple-crimson  fades  to  rose 

And  dying,  melting,  outward  goes 

In  ashes  on  the  even's  rim, 

When  all  the  world  grows  faint  and  dim  ! 

O  silvern  sound  of  far-ofF  bells 

Ringing,  ringing  miles  away 
Over  river,  fields,  and  fells, 

Round  the  crimson  and  the  gray  j 
Pealing  softly  evening  out 

As  the  dewy  dusk  comes  down, 
And  the  great  night  folds  about 

River,  woodlands,  hills,  and  town  ! 
36 


Glory  of  the  Dying  Day  37 

O  glory  of  the  fading  hills  ! 

Splendor  of  the  river's  breast  ! 
O  silence  that  the  whole  world  fills ! 

Sanctity  of  peaceful  rest ! 
Alien  from  the  care  of  day, 

Now  a  petalled  star  peeps  in: 

Now  night's  choruses  begin, 
Musical  and  far  away. 

O  glory  of  the  dying  day. 
When  my  life's  evening  fades  away, 
May  it  in  splendid  peace  go  down 
Like  yours  o'er  river-bend  and  town  — 
Not  into  silence  blind  and  stark. 
Not  into  wintry  muffled  dark  — 

But,  heralded  by  stars  divine. 
May  my  life's  latest  evening  ray 

Melt  into  such  a  night  as  thine. 


September  in  the  Laurentian 
Hills 

\  LREADY  Winter  in  his  sombre  round, 
■^  -^      Before  his  time    hath    touched  these  hills 

austere 
With  lonely  flame.     Last  night,  without  a  sound. 
The  ghostly  frost  walked  out  by  wood  and  mere. 
And  now  the  sumach  curls  his  frond  of  fire, 

The  aspen-tree  reluctant  drops  his  gold. 
And  down  the  gullies  the  North's  wild  vibrant  lyre 
Rouses  the  bitter  armies  of  the  cold. 

O'er  this  short  afternoon  the  night  draws  down. 
With  ominous  chill,  across  these  regions  bleak ; 

Wind-beaten  gold,  the  sunset  fades  around 
The  purple  loneliness  of  crag  and  peak, 

Leaving  the  world  an  iron  house  wherein 

Nor  love  nor  life  nor  hope  hath  ever  been. 
38 


Lazarus 

/^  FATHER  ABRAM,  I  can  never  rest, 
^^      Here  in  thy  bosom  in  the  whitest  heaven, 
Where  love  blooms  on  through  days  without  an 

even  ; 
For  up  through  all  the  paradises  seven. 
There   comes  a  cry  from   some  fierce,  anguished 
breast,  — 

A  cry  that  comes  from  out  of  hell's  dark  night, 

A  piercing  cry  of  one  in  agony, 

That  reaches  me  here  in  heaven  white  and  high ; 

A  call  of  anguish  that  doth  never  die; 
Like  dream-waked  infant  wailing  for  the  light. 

O  Father  Abram,  heaven  is  love  and  peace. 
And  God  is  good ;  eternity  is  rest. 
Sweet  would  it  be  to  lie  upon  thy  breast 
And  know  no  thought  but  loving  to  be  blest 

Save  for  that  cry  that  nevermore  will  cease. 

It  comes  to  me  above  the  angel-lyres, 
1  he  chanting  praises  of  the  cherubim  ; 
It  comes  between  my  upward  gaze  and  Ilim, 
39 


40  Lazarus 

All-blessed    Christ ;     a    voice    from    the    vague 
dim  — 
"  O  Lazarus^  come  and  ease  rjie  of  these  fires^ 

O  Laxarus^  I  have  called  thee  all  these  years^ 
It  is  so  long  for  me  to  reach  to  thee^ 
Across  the  ages  of  this  mighty  sea^ 
That  loometh  dark^  dense^  like  eternity  ; 

Which  I  have  bridged  by  anguished  prayers  and  tears : 

*'  Which  I  have  bridged  by  knowledge  of  God's  love^ 
That  even  penetrates  this  anguished  glare  ; 
ji  gleaming  ray^  a  tremulous  star-built  stair .^ 
A  road  by  which  love-hungered  souls  may  fare 

Past  hate  and  doubt^  to  heaven  and  God  above." 

So  calleth  it  ever  upward  unto  me  : 

It  creepeth  in  through  heaven's  golden  doors : 
It  echoes  all  along  the  sapphire  floors  : 
Like  smoke  of  sacrifice,  it  soars  and  soars, 

It  fills  the  vastness  of  eternity ; 

Until  my  sense  of  love  is  waned  and  dimmed  : 
The  music-rounded  spheres  do  clash  and  jar. 
No  more  those  spirit-calls  from  star  to  star. 
Those  harmonies  that  float  and  melt  afar, 

Those  belts  of  light  by  which  all  heaven  is  rimmed. 


Lazarus  4 1 

No  more  I  hear  the  beat  of  heavenly  wings, 
The  seraph  chanting  in  my  rest-tuned  ear: 
I  only  know  a  cry,  a  prayer,  a  tear. 
That  rises  from  the  depths  up  to  me  here; 

A  soul  that  to  me  suppliant  leans  and  clings. 

0  Father  Abram,  thou  must  bid  me  go 
Into  the  spaces  of  the  deep  abyss  ; 

Where  far  from  us  and  our  God-given  bliss. 
Do   dwell   those   souls    that   have    done    Christ 
amiss ; 
For  through  my  rest  I  hear  that  upward  woe. 

1  hear  it  crying  through  the  heavenly  night, 

When  curved,  hung  in  space,  the  million  moons 
Lean  planet-ward,  and  infinite  space  attunes 
Itself  to  silence.     As  from  drear  gray  dunes 
A  cry  is  heard  along  the  shuddering  light. 

Of  wild  dusk-bird,  a  sad,  heart-curdling  cry. 

So  comes  to  me  that  call  from  out  hell's  coasts ; 
I  see  an  infinite  shore  with  gaping  ghosts  ! 
This  is  no  heaven,  with  all  its  shining  hosts! 

This  is  no  heaven,  until  that  hell  doth  die ! 

So  spake  the  soul  of  Lazarus,  and  from  thence. 
Like  new-fledged  bird  from  its  sun-jewelled  nest, 


42 


Drunk  with  the  music  of  the  young  year's  quest, 
He  sank  out  into  heaven's  gloried  breast, 
Spaceward  turned,  toward  darkness  dim,  immense. 

Hellward  he  moved  like  a  radiant  star  shot  out 
From  heaven's  blue  with  rain  of  gold  at  even. 
When  Orion's  train  and  that  mysterious  seven 
Move    on    in    mystic    range    from    heaven    to 
heaven  — 

Hellward  he  sank,  followed  by  radiant  rout. 

The  liquid  floor  of  heaven  bore  him  up 

With  unseen  arms,  as  in  his  feathery  flight 
He  floated  down  toward  the  infinite  night ; 
And  each  way  downward,  on  the  left  and  right, 

He  saw  each  moon  of  heaven  like  a  cup 

Of  liquid,  misty  fire  that  shone  afar 

From  sentinel  towers  of  heaven's  battlements  j 
But  onward,  winged  by  love's  desire  intense. 
And  sank,  space-swallowed,  into  the  immense, 

While  with  him  ever  widened  heaven's  bar. 

'T  is  ages  now  long-gone  since  he  went  out, 

Christ-urged,  love-driven,  across  the  jasper  walls; 
But  hellward  still  he  ever  floats  and  falls. 
And  ever  nearer  come  those  anguished  calls ; 

And  far  behind  he  hears  a  glorious  shout. 


I 


The  Mother' 


T  was  April,  blossoming  spring, 
rhey  buried  me,  when  the  birds  did  sing  ; 


Earth,  in  clammy  wedging  earth. 

They  banked  my  bed  with  a  black,  damp  girth. 

Under  the  damp  and  under  the  mould, 

I  kenned  my  breasts  were  clammy  and  cold. 

Out  from  the  red  beams,  slanting  and  bright, 
I  kenned  my  checks  were  sunken  and  white. 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream. 
And  yet  I  kenned  all  things  that  seem. 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream, 
But  you  cannot  bury  a  red  sunbeam. 

1  This    poem    was    suggested   by   the   following   passage  in  Tyler's 

jinimiim:   "The  pathetic  German  superstition  that  the  dead  mother's 

coming  back   in  the  night  to  suckle  the  baby  she   had   left   on  earth 

may  be  known  by  the  huUow  pressed  down  in  the  bud  where  blic  lay." 

43 


44  The  Mother 


For  though  in  the  under-grave's  doom-night 
I  lay  all  silent  and  stark  and  white, 

Yet  over  my  head  I  seemed  to  know 
The  murmurous  moods  of  wind  and  snow, 

The  snows  that  wasted,  the  winds  that  blew, 
The  rays  that  slanted,  the  clouds  that  drew 

The  water-ghosts  up  from  lakes  below. 

And  the  little  flower-souls  in  earth  that  grow. 

Under  earth,  in  the  grave's  stark  night, 
I  felt  the  stars  and  the  moon's  pale  light. 

I  felt  the  winds  of  ocean  and  land 

That  whispered  the  blossoms  soft  and  bland. 

Though  they  had  buried  me  dark  and  low. 
My  soul  with  the  season's  seemed  to  grow. 


From  throes  of  pain  they  buried  me  low. 
For  death  had  finished  a  mother's  woe. 

But  under  the  sod,  in  the  grave's  dread  doom, 
I  dreamed  of  my  baby  in  glimmer  and  gloom. 


The  Mother  45 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe,  and  I  kenned  that  his  rest 
Was  broken  in  wailings  on  my  dead  breast. 

I  dreamed  that  a  rose-leaf  hand  did  cling : 
Oh,  you  cannot  bury  a  mother  in  spring  ! 

When  the  winds  are  soft  and  the  blossoms  are  red 
She  could  not  sleep  in  her  cold  earth-bed. 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
And  then  I  rose  in  my  graveclothes  white. 

I  rose  like  a  flower  from  my  damp  earth-bed 
To  the  world  of  sorrowing  overhead. 

Men  would  have  called  me  a  thing  of  harm, 
But  dreams  of  my  babe  made  me  rosy  and  warm. 

I  felt  my  breasts  swell  under  my  shroud  ; 
No  star  shone  white,  no  winds  were  loud ; 

But  I  stole  me  past  the  graveyard  wall, 
For  the  voice  of  my  baby  seemed  to  call; 

And   I   kenned    me  a  voice,  though    my  lips  were 

dumb  : 
Hush,  baby,  hush  !   for  mother  is  come. 


46  The  Mother 


I  passed  the  streets  to  my  husband's  home; 
The  chamber  stairs  in  a  dream  I  clomb. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  each  sleeper's  breath, 
Light  waves  that  break  on  the  shores  of  death. 

I  listened  a  space  at  my  chamber  door, 
Then  stole  like  a  moon-ray  over  its  floor. 

My  babe  was  asleep  on  a  stranger  arm. 
"  O  baby,  my  baby,  the  grave  is  so  warm, 

"  Though  dark  and  so  deep,  for  mother  is  there  ! 
O  come  with  me  from  the  pain  and  care  ! 

*'  O  come  with  me  from  the  anguish  of  earth. 
Where  the  bed  is  banked  with  a  blossoming  girth, 

"  Where  the  pillow  is  soft  and  the  rest  is  long. 
And  mother  will  croon  you  a  slumber-song, 

"  A  slumber-song  that  will  charm  your  eyes 
To  a  sleep  that  never  in  earth-song  lies  ! 

"  The  loves  of  earth  your  being  can  spare, 
But  never  the  grave,  for  mother  is  there." 


The  Mother  47 


I  nestled  him  soft  to  my  throbbing  breast, 
And  stole  me  back  to  my  long,  long  rest. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  the  stars. 
Dead  to  earth,  its  peace  and  its  wars ; 

Dead  to  its  hates,  its  hopes,  and  its  harms, 
So  long  as  he  cradles  up  soft  in  my  arms. 

And  heaven  may  open  its  shimmering  doors. 
And  saints  make  music  on  pearly  floors, 

And  hell  may  yawn  to  its  infinite  sea. 

But  they  never  can  take  my  baby  from  me. 

For  so  much  a  part  of  my  soul  he  hath  grown 
That  God  doth  know  of  it  high  on  his  throne. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  the  flowers 
That  sun-winds  rock  through  the  billowy  hours. 

With  the  night-airs  that  steal  from  the  murmuring 

sea. 
Bringing  sweet  peace  to  my  baby  and  me. 


Dusk 

"TNOWN  by  the  shore  at  even,  when  the  waves 
-*— ^    Lap  lightly  on  the  reedy  rims,  and  soft. 
One  trembling  star,  a  blossom,  flames  aloft, 
Where  the  sunk  sun  the  western  heaven  laves 
With  lowest  tides  of  day  ;  the  tired  world  craves 
For  the  great  night  that  cometh  brooding  in, 
With  draught  of  healing  over  earth's  far  din. 
And  blessed  rest  that  recreates  and  saves. 

Far  in  the  breathing  woods  the  whip-poor-will 
Reiterates  his  plaintive  note  ;  and  hark  ! 
A  dusky  night-hawk  whirrs  athwart  the  dark, 
Haunting  the  shadows,  till  in  silvern  swoon. 
Hunted  by  her  own  spirit,  strange  and  still, 
Over  the  waters  comes  the  wan,  white  moon. 
48 


The  Last  Prayer 

MASTER  of  life,  the  day  is  done  ; 
My  sun  of  life  is  sinking  low  ; 
I  watch  the  hours  slip  one  by  one 
And  hark  the  night-wind  and  the  snow. 

And  must  thou  shut  the  morning  out, 
And  dim  the  eye  that  loved  to  see ; 
Silence  the  melody  and  rout. 
And  seal  the  joys  of  earth  for  me  ? 

And  must  thou  banish  all  the  hope  — 
The  large  horizon's  eagle-swim. 
The  splendor  of  the  far-off  slope 
That  ran  about  the  world's  great  rim, 

That  rose  with  morning's  crimson  rays 
And  grew  to  noonday's  gloried  dome, 
Melting  to  even's  purple  haze 
When  all  the  hopes  of  earth  went  home  ? 

Yea,  Master  of  this  ruined  house, 
The  mortgage  closed,  outruns  the  lease ; 
49 


50  The  Last  Prayer 

Long  since  is  hushed  the  gay  carouse 
And  now  the  windowed  lights  must  cease. 

The  doors  all  barred,  the  shutters  up. 
Dismantled,  empty,  wall  and  floor, 
And  now  for  one  grim  eve  to  sup 
With  death  the  bailiff  at  the  door. 

Yea,  I  will  take  the  gloomward  road 
Where  fast  the  Arctic  nights  set  in, 
To  reach  the  bourne  of  that  abode 
Which  thou  hast  kept  for  all  my  kin. 

And  all  life's  splendid  joys  forego, 
Walled  in  with  night  and  senseless  stone. 
If  at  the  last  my  heart  might  know 
Through  all  the  dark  one  joy  alone. 

Yea,  thou  mayst  quench  the  latest  spark 
Of  life's  weird  day's  expectancy. 
Roll  down  the  thunders  of  the  dark 
And  close  the  light  of  life  for  me. 

Melt  all  the  splendid  blue  above 
And  let  these  magic  wonders  die. 
If  thou  wilt  only  leave  me  Love 
And  Love's  heart-brother  Memory. 


The  Last  Prayer  51 

Though  all  the  hopes  of  every  race 
Crumbled  in  one  red  crucible. 
And  melted  mingled  into  space, 
Yet,  Master,  thou  wert  merciful. 


Pan  the  Fallen 

T  TE  wandered  into  the  market 
-■-  -■-      With  pipes  and  goatish  hoof; 
He  wandered  in  a  grotesque  shape, 

And  no  one  stood  aloof. 
For  the  children  crowded  round  him, 

The  wives  and  graybeards,  too, 
To  crack  their  jokes  and  have  their  mirth, 

And  see  what  Pan  would  do. 

The  Pan  he  was  they  knew  him, 

Part  man,  but  mostly  beast, 
Who  drank,  and  lied,  and  snatched  what  bones 

Men  threw  him  from  their  feast ; 
Who  seemed  in  sin  so  merry, 

So  careless  in  his  woe. 
That  men  despised,  scarce  pitied  him, 

And  still  would  have  it  so. 

He  swelled  his  pipes  and  thrilled  them. 

And  drew  the  silent  tear ; 
He  made  the  gravest  clack  with  mirth 

By  his  sardonic  leer. 

52 


Pan  the  Fallen  53 


He  blew  his  pipes  full  sweetly 

At  their  amused  demands,  \ 
And  caught  the  scornful  earth-flung  pence 

That  fell  from  careless  hands. 

He  saw  the  mob's  derision, 

And  took  it  kindly,  too. 
And  when  an  epithet  was  flung, 

A  coarser  back  he  threw  ; 
But  under  all  the  masking 

Of  a  brute,  unseemly  part, 
I  looked,  and  saw  a  wounded  soul, 

And  a  god-like,  breaking  heart. 

And  back  of  the  elfin  music. 

The  burlesque,  clownish  play, 
I  knew  a  wail  that  the  weird  pipes  made, 

A  look  that  was  far  away, — 
A  gaze  into  some  far  heaven 

Whence  a  soul  had  fallen  down  ; 
But  the  mob  only  saw  the  grotesque  beast 

And  the  antics  of  the  clown. 

YoT  scant-fluni^  pence  he  paid  them 

With  mirth  and  cllin  play. 
Till,  tired  for  a  time  of  his  antics  queer, 

They  passed  and  went  their  way  ; 


54 


Pan  the  Fallen 


Then  there  in  the  empty  market 

He  ate  his  scanty  crust, 
And,  tired  face  turned  to  heaven,  down 

He  laid  him  in  the  dust. 

And  over  his  v^^ild,  strange  features 

A  softer  Hght  there  fell. 
And  on  his  worn,  earth-driven  heart 

A  peace  ineffable. 
And  the  moon  rose  over  the  market, 

But  Pan  the  beast  was  dead ; 
While  Pan  the  god  lay  silent  there, 

With  his  strange,  distorted  head. 

And  the  people,  when  they  found  him. 

Stood  still  with  awesome  fear. 
No  more  they  saw  the  beast's  rude  hoof. 

The  furtive,  clownish  leer; 
But  the  lightest  spirit  in  that  throng 

Went  silent  from  the  place. 
For  they  knew  the  look  of  a  god  released 

That  shone  from  his  dead  face. 


w 


The  Vengeance  of  Saki 


HEN  the  moon  is  red  in  the  heaven,  and 
under  the  night 

Is  heard   on   the   winds   the   thunder  of  shadowy 
horses, 

Then   out  of  the  night    I   arise,  and   again  am  a 
woman  ; 

And  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  steed  that  knows 
me, 

And    hound    him    on    in    the  wake   of  hoofs   that 
thunder. 

Of   smoking     nostrils,    and     gleaming     eyes,    and 
foam-flecked 

Flanks  that  glow  and  flash  in  the  flow  of  the  moon- 
light; 

While  under  the  mirk  and  the  moon,  out  into  the 
blackness. 

Round  the  world's  edge  with  an   eerie,  mad,  echo- 
ing laughter. 

Leaps  the  long  cry  of  the  hate  of  the  wild  snake- 
woman. 

5S 


56  The  Vengeance  of  Saki 

Ha  !   Ha  !   it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as 

we  thunder  ! 
Ho  !   Ho  !   for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to 

my  laughter! 
Ha!   Ha!    it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass 

into  silence, 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever, 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman  ! 

I  was  a  girl  of  the  South,  with  eyes  as  tender 
And  dreamy  and  soft  and  true  as  the  skies  of  my 

people  j 
But  I  was  a  slave  and  an  alien  captured  in  battle, 
And  brought  to  the  North  by  a  people  ruder  and 

stronger. 
Who  held  me  as  naught  but  a  toy,  to  be  played 

with  and  broken. 
Then   thrown    aside    like   a  bow   that    is   snapped 

asunder. 
Lithe  and  supple  my  limbs  as  the  sinuous  serpent, 
And  quick  as  the  eye  and  the  tongue  of  the  serpent 

mine  anger 
That  flashed  out  the  fire  of  my  hate  on  the  scorn 

of  my  scorners. 
But  hate  soon  softened  to  love,  as  fire  into  sunlight. 
When  my  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  chieftain,  my 

lord,  and  my  master. 


The  Vengeance  of  Sakl  5  7 

Sweet  as  the  flowers  that  bloom  on  the  blossoming 

prairie, 
Gladder  than  voices  of  fountains  that  dance  in  the 

sunlight, 
Were  the  new  and  tremulous  fancies  that  dwelt  in 

my  bosom; 
For  he  was  my  king  and  my  sun,  and  the  power  of 

his  glance 
To  me  as  at  springtime  the  returning  sun  to  the 

landscape. 
And  his  touch  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  that  set 

my  heart  throbbing. 

Sweet  were  the  days  of  the  summer  I  dwelt  in   his 

tent. 
And  glad  and  loving  the  nights  that  I   lay  on   his 

bosom. 
But  woe,  woe,  woe,  to  the  summer  that  fades   into 

autumn. 
And  woe  upon  woe  is  the  love  that   dwindles  and 

dies. 
And  ere  my  hot    heart  was   abrini  with  its   summer 

of  loving 
I   knew  that   its  autumn    had    come,  that   his   love 

was  another's  — 
A   blue-eyed   haughty   captive  they   brought    from 

the  East, 


58  The  Vengeance  of  Saki 

Her  hair  like  moving  sunlight  that  rippled  and  ran 

With  the  golden  flow  of  a  brook  from  her  brow 
to  her  girdle. 

He  saw  her,  he  looked  on  her  face,  and  I  was  for- 
gotten — 

Yea,  I  and  the  love  that  fed  on  my  soul  in  its  an- 
guish ! 

Ha  !  Ha  !  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as 

we  thunder  ! 
Ho  !   Ho  !   for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to 

my  laughter ! 
Ha  !  Ha  I  it  is  well  for  the  shriekings  that  pass  into 

silence, 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  darkness  forever. 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman  ! 

I  bowed  my  head  with  its  woe  to  him  in  my  an- 
guish ; 

I  veiled  my  face  in  my  hair  like  the  night  of  my 
sorrow ; 

And  I  plead  with  him  there  by  the  love  that  was 
true  and  forgiving  : 

Oh !  my  lord  and  my  love,  by  the  days  that  are 
past  of  our  loving, 

Oh  !  slay  thy  poor  Saki,  but  send  her  not  forth  in 
her  anguish  ! 


The  Vengeance  of  Saki  59 

And  I  fell  to  the  earth  with  my  face,  like  the  moon 

hid  in  heaven, 
In  the  folds  of  my  hair.     But  he  sate  there  and 

uttered  no  answer  ; 
And  the  white  woman  sate  there,  and  scorned   at 

the  woe  of  my  sorrow. 

Then    I  bit  my  tongue  through  that   had  prayed 

for  the  pity  ungiven. 
And  I  rose  with  my  hate  in  my  eyes,  like  the  light- 

nirip;  in  heaven 
That  leaps  red  to  kill  with  a  hiss  like  the  snake 

that  they  called  me ; 
And  I  looked  on   them   there,  and  I  cursed  them, 

the  man,  and  the  woman  — 
The  man  whose  lips  had  kissed  my  love  into  being. 
And  the  woman  whose  beauty   had  withered  that 

love  into  ashes  — 
With  curses  so  dread  and  so  deep  that  he  rose  up 

and  smote  me, 
And    hounded    me  forth   like   a  dog  to  die  in  the 

desert. 

Ha  !   Ha  !   it   is  joy   for  the  hearts  that   we  crush 

as  we  thunder  ! 
Ho  '    Ho'    for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh   to 

my  laughter ! 


6o  The  Vengeance  of  Saki 

Ha !   Ha !    it  is  well  for  the  shriekings   that   pass 

into  silence, 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  for  ever. 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman  ! 

Then  wandered  I  forth  an  outcast  hounded  and 
beaten ; 

Careless  whither  I  went  or  living  or  dying. 

With  that  load  of  despair  at  my  heartstrings  wear- 
ing; to  madness. 

Long  and  loud  I  laughed  at  the  heaven  that  mocked 
me 

With  its  beautiful  sounds  and  its  sights  and  the  joy 
of  its  being, 

For  I  longed  but  to  die  and  to  go  to  that  region  of 
darkness 

Where  I  might  shroud  me  and  curse  in  my  mad- 
ness for  ever. 

Far,  oh  far  I  fled  till  my  feet  were  wounded 

And  bruised  and  cut  by  the  ways  unkindly  and 
cruel. 

Then  all  the  world  grew  red  and  the  sun  as  a  fur- 
nace. 

And  I  raved  till  I  knew  no  more  for  a  horrible 
season. 

Then  I  arose,  and  stood  like  one  in  a  dream 

Who,  after  long  years  of  forgetting,  sudden  remem- 
bers 


The  Vengeance  of  Saki  6 1 

The  dread  wild  cry  of  a  wrong  that  clamors  for 
righting ; 

Then  sending  a  curse  to  the  heart  of  the  night  sky, 
I  turned  me 

And  fled  like  the  wind  of  the  winter,  the  sound  of 
whose  footstep  is  vengeance. 

Late,  when  the  moon  had  lowered,  I  entered  his 
village. 

And  threading  the  silent  streets  came  to  the  well- 
known  tent-door. 

And,  dragging  aside  the  skins,  with  serpentine  mo- 
tion 

Entered  now  as  a  thief  where  once  I  had  entered 
as  mistress. 

And  there  in  the  gleam  of  the  moon,  with  the  flame 
of  her  hair  on  his  bosom. 

Lay  the  woman  I  hated  like  hell  with  the  man  I 
loved  clasped  to  her  heart. 

Ha  !   Ha  !   it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as 

we  thunder  ! 
Ho!    Ho!   for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to 

my  laughter  ! 
Ha  !    Ha  !    it   is  well   for  the  shriekings  that   pass 

into  silence, 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever. 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman  ! 


62  The  Vengeance  of  Saki 

If  hate  could  have  slain  they  'd  have  shrivelled  up 

there  in  the  moonlight ; 
But  theirs  was  a  sin  too   deep  for   the  kiss   of  a 

knife-blade. 
Long  did  I  stand  like  a  poisoned  wind  in  a  desert, 
Gray   and    sad    and    despairing,   and    nursing    my 

hate; 
When  out  of  the  night,  like  one  voice  that  calls  to 

another. 
Came  the  far-off  neigh  of  a  horse,  and  a  mad  joy 

leaped  to  my  veins. 
And  a  thought  curled  into  my  heart  as  a  serpent 

coils  into  a  flower; 
And    I   turned  me,  and    left  them   there  in  their 

foolish  love  and  their  slumber 
That  my  hot  heart  hissed  was  their  last. 
Then  hurrying  out  of  the  door  that  flapped  in  the 

night-wind  I  fled. 
With  a  pent-up  hunger  of  hate  that  maddened  to 

burst  from  its  sluices. 
And  came  to  a  place  on  the  plain  far  up  and  out 

from  the  village. 
Where  tethered  in  rows  of  hurdles,  champing  and 

restless  and  neighing, 
Half  a    thousand   horses  were    herded    under   the 

night. 


The  Vengeance  of  Saki  63 

Ha  !    Ha  !    I   live  it  anew,  I  dream  it  again  in  my 
madness. 

I  see  that  moving  ocean  of  shimmering  flanks  in 
the  moonlight : 

I  snatch  a  brand  from  a  watchfire  that  smoulders 
and  dwindles : 

I  creep  around  to  the  side  of  the  herd  remote  from 
the  village  : 

I  cry,  a  low  call,  that  is  answered  by  a  neigh  and  a 
whinny  : 

Then   I  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  stallion  that 
knows  me. 

'T  is  but  the  cut  of  a  thong,  a  cry  in  the  night, 

A  fiery  waving  brand  like  lightning  to  thunder, 

A   terrified    moaning  and   neighing,  a  heaving  of 
necks  and  of  haunches  ; 

A  bound,  a  rush,  a  crack  of  a  thong,  then  a  whirl- 
wind of  hoofs  ! 

Like  a  sweep  of  a  wave  on  a  beach  wc  arc  thun- 
dering onwards. 

Neck  and  neck  in  the  wake  of  my  hate,  that  ever 
before  us 

Clamors  from   heaven  to  hell   in   its  terrible  ven- 
geance ! 

With  neck  outstretched  and   mad  eyes  agleain   in 
the  niofjnlight, 

I  see  on  ahead  the  sleeping  huts  in  the  moonlight. 


64  'Th^  Vengeance  of  Saki 

Ha !   Ha !  they  will  rest  well  under  the  sleep  that 

we  bring  them  ! 
See,  see,  we  are  nearing  them  now  ;  the  first  wild 

thundering  hoof-beats 
Have  ridden  them  down,  'mid  the  shriekings  and 

groanings  of  anguish, 
Blotting  them  out  with  their  loves  and  their  hates 

into  blackness. 
Ha!    Ha!     ride,    ride,    my    beauties,    my    terrible 

tramplers  ! 
Pound,  pound  into  dust  the  mother,  the  child,  and 

the  husband  ! 
Pound,  pound  to  the  pulse  of  my  hate  that  exults 

in  your  thunders  ! 
Ha  !   Over   the  little   ones    nestled  to   suckle   the 

bosom. 
Over  the  man  that  I  loved,  we  thunder,  we  thunder! 
Over  the  woman  I  hate  with  the  flame  of  her  hair 

on  his  bosom ; 
Trampling,  treading   them   down  out  into  silence 

and  blackness, 
Like  the  swirl  of  a  merciless  storm  we  sweep  on 

to  darkness  forever  ! 
And  now,  when  the  moon  is  in  heaven,  and  under 

the  night 
Is   heard   on   the  winds   the   thunder   of  shadowy 

horses, 


The  Vengeance  of  Saki  65 

Then  out  of  the  dark  I  arise,  and  again  am  a 
woman ; 

And  leap  to  the  back  of  an  ebon  steed  that  knows 
me, 

And  hound  him  on  in  the  wake  of  hoofs  that  thun- 
der; 

While  under  the  mirk  and  the  moon,  out  into  the 
blackness, 

Round  the  world's  edge  with  an  eerie,  mad,  echo- 
ing laughter. 

Leaps  the  long  cry  of  the  hate  of  the  wild  snake- 
woman. 

Ha  !   Ha  !  it  is  joy  for  the  hearts  that  we  crush  as 

we  thunder! 
Ho  !   Ho  !   for  the  hate  of  the  winds  that  laugh  to 

my  laughter  ! 
Ha  !    Ha  !    it  is  well   for  the  shriekings  that   pass 

into  silence, 
As  under  the  night,  out  into  the  blackness  forever, 
Rides  the  wild  hate  of  Saki,  the  mad  snake-woman  ! 


L 


Love 


OVE  came  at  dawn  when  all  the  world  was 
fair, 

When  crimson   glories,  bloom,  and   song  were 
rife; 
Love  came  at  dawn  when  hope's  wings  fanned  the 
air. 
And  murmured,  "  I  am  life." 

Love  came  at  even  when  the  day  was  done. 

When  heart  and  brain  were  tired,  and  slumber 
pressed ; 
Love  came  at  eve,  shut  out  the  sinking  sun, 
And  whispered,  "  I  am  rest." 
66 


Victoria 

JUBILEE    ODE,    A.    D.    1 897 

WITH  thunder  of  cannon   and  far-ofFroll  of 
drum, 
And  martial  music  blaring  forth  her  glory, 
'Mid  miles  of  thronging  millions  down  each  street 
Where  all  the  earth  is  bound  in  one  heart-beat 
The  world's  great  Empire's   greatest  Queen  doth 

come, 
Borne  on  one  mighty,  rocking  earthquake  voice 
Wherein  all  peoples  of  wide  earth  rejoice  — 
She  comes,  she  comes,  to  beat  of  martial  drums. 
And  pageants  blazoning  England's  ancient  story  ; 
The  good,  gray  Queen,  whose  majesty  and  worth 
Have  lent  their  radiance  to  remotest  earth ; 
While  the  splendor  and   might   and  power  of  her 

mighty  empire  bound  her ; 
And  the  serried  millions,  mad   with  joy,  are  near 

her, 
All  to  love  her,  none  to  fear  her, 
But  nearer  far  than  power,  than  splendor  dearer. 
The  surging  love  of  her  loved  people  round  her. 
67 


68  Victoria 

She  comes,  she  comes,  encircled  by  her  people, 
While  praise  to  Heaven  peals  out  from  tower  and 

steeple. 
Into  the  great  cathedral,  hushed  and  dim. 
With  thankful  heart  and  humble  queenly  head 
Over  the  sleep  of  England's  mighty  dead. 
To  render  up  her  heart's  best  thoughts  to  Him 
The  King  of  Kings — 'mid  hush  of  priestly  tread. 
And  gloried  anthem's  solemn  pealing  hymn. 

The  mighty  millions,  awed,  now  bow  the  head, 

Thank  Heaven  for  her  simple,  noble  life. 

Earth's  queenliest  empress,  mother,  daughter,  wife  ! 

Thank  Heaven  for  all  she  held  her  dearest  own  ! 

Forgiveness  for  the  weakness  she  hath  known  ! 

Blessings  on  her  wise  old  widowed  head, 

For  what  her  life  is  now,  and  what  her  life  hath 

been. 
Noble  mother,  wife  and  Queen ! 

Let  the  mighty  organs  roll,  and  the  mighty  throng 
disperse  ! 

She  is  ours,  and  we  are  hers. 

And  both  are  Britain's.      Both  to  Britain's  God 

Lift  up  the  heart-felt  praise  for  the  might  of  splen- 
did days. 

For  the  glory  that  hath  been. 


Victoria  69 

Let  the  cannon  thunder  out,  and  the  miles  of 
voices  shout  —  Victoria  ! 

Let  the  bells  peal  out  afar,  till  the  rocket  tells  the 
star, 

And  the  ocean  shouts  its  pxan  to  the  thunder- 
answering  bar ; 

England's  glory,  Britain's  pride, 

Revered  of  half  a  world  beside, 

O  good  gray  Queen,  Victoria  ! 

Daughter  of  monarchs,  mother  of  kings  j 

All  her  sorrows  we  have  shared, 

All  her  triumphs  they  are  ours. 

Kind  Heaven,  that  virtue  still  endowers. 

Be  with  her,  may  her  path  be  flowers; 

Be  with  her,  may  her  days  be  spared, 

Death  aloof  with  shadowing  wings. 

Unto  nature's  latest  hours  ! 

Daughter  of  monarchs,  mother  of  kings, 

O  good  gray  Queen,  Victoria  ! 

Let  all  feuds  of  faction  die. 

Let  the  blaring  party  bugles  cease  to  blow. 

Let  insincere  and  base  detraction  lie. 

With  sore  defeat  and  bitterness,  her  carping  sisters, 

low, 
In  this  one  suprcmest  hour, 


70 


Victoria 


Day  of  Britain's  ancient  power, 

Day  of  all  her  golden  dower, 

Of  victory-towering  centuries,  tower  on  tower. 

Let  all  our  hatreds  be  forgot, 

All  bitterness  be  swept  away. 

Remembering  only  the  glory  of  our  lot 

In  this  century-honoring  day  ! 

Celt  and  Scot  and  Saxon,  let  us  only  know, 

A  mighty  Queen  comes  to  her  own  at  last. 

Her  people's  love  and  reverence —  as  the  glow 

Of  some  splendid  western  heaven, 

Deepening  into  richer  even, 

Ere  it  purples  to  the  vast. 

Past  the  mailed  gates  of  fears. 

The  hooded  menace  of  the  years. 

Where  rang  the  iron  voices  rolling  on  her  ears. 

Of  royal  dreams  the  requiem  and  pall. 

And  awful  fates  of  thrones  foredoomed  to  fall ; 

Our  aged  Queen,  on  this  glad  day  she  stands 

Amid  the  throbbings  of  her  land's  great  love. 

Firm  in  her  rule,  her  faith  in  God  above. 

Earth's  golden  keys  of  happiness  in  her  hands. 

O  splendid  life  of  Britain's  splendid  days ! 
O  noble  soul,  above  all  blame  or  praise  ! 
O  fame  that  will  outlast  our  little  fame ! 


Victoria  7 1 

O  long-enduring  honor  greater  than  time  or  death  ! 
O  name  that  will  outlive  even  that  immortal  name, 
England's  more  ancient  glory,  the  great  Elizabeth ! 

And  we,  thy  loyal  subjects  far  away. 

In  these  new  lands  that  own  thy  sceptre's  sway. 

Betwixt  thy  Royal  Isle  and  far  Cathay  — 

Across  the  thunder  of  the  western  foam, 

O    good  gray    Queen,   our    hearts    go    home,    go 

home. 
To  thine  and  thee  ! 

We  are  thine  own  while  empires  rise  and  wane. 
We  are  thine  own  for  blessing  or  for  bane. 
And,  come  the  shock  of  thundering  war  again. 
For  death  or  victory  ! 

Not  that  we  hate  our  brothers  to  the  south. 
They  are  our  fellows  in  the  speech  of  mouth. 
They  are  our  wedded  kindred,  our  own  blood, 
The  same  world-evils  we  and  they  withstood. 
Our  aims  arc  theirs,  one  common  future  good  — 
Not  that  we  hate  them,  but  that  there  doth  lie 
Within  our  hearts  a  golden  fealty 
To  Britain,  Britain,  jjritain,  till  the  world  doth  die. 

And  him  we  send  thee  as  our  greatest  son, 

The  people's  choice,  to  whose  firm   hand  is  given 


72  Victoria 

The  welfare  of  our  country  under  heaven  ; 
No  truer  son  hast  thou  in  all  thy  coasts, 
No  wiser,  kindlier,  stronger,  Britain  boasts ; 
Our  knightly  leader,  Norman  in  his  blood. 
But  truest  Briton  in  heart  and  speech  and  mind, 
Beloved  well  of  all  his  fellow-kind. 
In  statesmanship  our  nation's  highest  mood. 
Our  silver-tongued  and  golden-hearted  one. 
In  every  inch  and  every  thought  a  man. 
Our  noblest  type,  ideal  Canadian  ! 
Receive  him  'mid  those,  greatest,  thou  dost  own. 
Thy  mighty  empire-builders,  bastioning  round  thy 
throne. 

O  England's  latest,  greatest  Oueen, 

Greatness  more  great  than  all  her  greatness  that 
hath  been. 

Under  thy  sceptre  the  outmost  continents  hang. 

And  trackless  oceans  thunder  out  their  surges. 

These  are  thy  realms.     Never  in  earth's  old  story 

Hath  queen  of  earthly  realm  owned  such  resplen- 
dent glory. 

Not  golden  Homer  such  wondrous  kingdoms  sang. 

Round  earth's  wide  girdle  thy  mighty  empire 
verges, 

Out-splendoring  all  prophecy  of  olden  days  ; 


Victoria  73 

Thou,  latest  and  greatest  on  that  throne  whose  base 

Withstood  the  shock  of  centuries,  still  withstands 

The  lowering  hate  of  Europe's  iron  bands  ; 

In  thy  true  keeping  shall  that  sceptre  be 

A  golden  wand  of  happiness  to  the  free 

Who  call  thee  Queen  from  outmost  sea  to  sea. 

That  throne  to  them  a  mighty  lighthouse  tower, 

A  truth-compelling  majesty  of  light, 

Blinding  the  mists  of  ignorance  and  night. 

Where  round   its   base   throughout   the   centuries' 

flight. 
Thunder  in  vain  earth's  hosts  upon  its  iron  power. 


England 


ENGLAND,  England,  England, 
Girdled  by  ocean  and  skies. 
And  the  power  of  a  world  and  the  heart  of  a  race, 
And  a  hope  that  never  dies. 

England,  England,  England, 
Wherever  a  true  heart  beats. 
Wherever  the  rivers  of  commerce  flow, 
Wherever  the  bugles  of  conquest  blow. 
Wherever  the  glories  of  liberty  grow, 
'T  is  the  name  that  the  world  repeats. 

And  ye  who  dwell  in  the  shadow 
Of  the  century's  sculptured  piles. 
Where  sleep  our  century-honored  dead 
While  the  great  world  thunders  overhead. 
And  far  out  miles  on  miles. 
Beyond  the  smoke  of  the  mighty  town. 
The  blue  Thames  dimples  and  smiles ; 
Not  yours  alone  the  glory  of  old. 
Of  the  splendid  thousand  years. 
Of  Britain's  might  and  Britain's  right 
74 


England  7  5 

And  the  brunt  of  British  spears. 

Not  yours  alone,  for  the  great  world  round 

Ready  to  dare  and  do, 

Scot  and  Celt  and  Norman  and  Dane, 

With  the  Northman's  sinew  and  heart  and  brain. 

And    the    Northman's    courage    for    blessing    or 

bane 
Are  England's  heroes  too. 

North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 

Wherever  their  triumphs  be. 

Their  glory  goes  home  to  the  ocean-girt  isle 

Where  the  heather  blooms  and  the  roses  smile 

With  the  green  isle  under  her  Ice ; 

And  if  ever  the  smoke  of  an  alien  gun 

Should  threaten  her  iron  repose. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  world, 

Eace  to  face  with  her  foes, 

Scot  and  Celt  and  Saxon  are  one 

Where  the  glory  of  England  goes. 

And  we  of  the  newer  and  vaster  West, 

Where  the  great  war  banners  are  furled. 

And  commerce  hurries  her  teeming  hosts, 

And  the  cannon  are  silent  along  our  coasts, 

Saxon  and  (jaul,  Canadians  claim 

A  part  in  the  glory  and  pride  and  aim 

Of  the  Empire  that  girdles  the  world. 


76  England 

England,  England,  England, 

Wherever  the  daring  heart 

By  Arctic  floe  or  torrid  strand 

Thy  heroes  play  their  part  ; 

For  as  long  as  conquest  holds  the  earth. 

Or  commerce  sweeps  the  sea. 

By  Orient  jungle  or  Western  plain. 

Will  the  Saxon  spirit  be. 

And  whatever  the  people  that  dwell  beneath. 

Or  whatever  the  alien  tongue. 

Over  the  freedom  and  peace  of  the  world 

Is  the  flag  of  England  flung. 

Till  the  last  great  freedom  is  found. 

And  the  last  great  truth  be  taught. 

Till  the  last  great  deed  be  done 

And  the  last  great  battle  is  fought; 

Till  the  last  great  fighter  is  slain  in  the  last  great 

fight 
And  the  war-wolf  is  dead  in  his  den, 
England,  breeder  of  hope  and  valor  and  might. 
Iron  mother  of  men. 

Yea,  England,  England,  England, 
Till  honor  and  valor  are  dead. 
Till  the  world's  great  cannons  rust. 
Till  the  world's  great  hopes  are  dust, 
Till  faith  and  freedom  be  fled, 


England  7  7 

Till  wisdom  and  justice  have  passed 

To  sleep  with  those  who  sleep  in  the  many-cham- 
bered vast, 

Till  glory  and  knowledge  are  charnelled  dust  in 
dust, 

To  all  that  is  best  in  the  world's  unrest, 

In  heart  and  mind  you  are  wed. 

While  out  from  the  Indian  jungle 

To  the  far  Canadian  snows. 

Over  the  east  and  over  the  west, 

Over  the  worst  and  over  the  best. 

The  flag  of  the  world  to  its  winds  unfurled, 

The  blood-red  ensign  blows. 


Sebastian  Cabot 


NEW  startled  from  her  sensual  dreams, 
Europa  half-expectant  lay, 
Revolving  dimly  broken  gleams 
Of  some  far-ofF  unrisen  day, 
As  one  sees  through  dim  mists  of  night 
Some  far,  majestic,  moon-paved  mountain  way. 
On  grim  and  barbarous  couch  reclined, 
Groped  blindly  toward  her  ultimate  goal. 
When  she  through  midnight  of  the  mind 
Would  wake  to  knowledge  of  her  soul. 
So  with  a  prescience  all  divine, 
She  left  her  bestial  gods  behind. 
And  turned  her  toward  the  western  stars. 
When  this  old  rugged,  princely  tar-of-tars 
Beat  bravely  out,  where  heaving  leagues  on  leagues 
Billowed  the  western  brine. 

II 

Greater  than  power  or  splendor, 
Or  birth,  or  might  of  gold. 
Is  the  noble  life  of  a  noble  man 
78 


Sebastian  Cabot  79 


Of  a  heart  both  brave  and  bold  — 
All  honor  to  the  spirit 
That  knows  not  earth's  defeat, 
That  meets  with  courage  true  and  strong 
What  brave  souls  have  to  meet  — 
And  honor  to  the  hero, 
Who  centuries  ago 
Sailed  out  from  old  Bristowe 
Into  the  trackless  waters  of  the  west ; 
Who  bravely  beat  and  beat 
Where  sky  and  waters  meet, 
Till  he  saw  his  white  cliffs  vanish 
Under  ocean's  heaving  breast ; 
Nor  cowardly  turned  him  back. 
But  held  straight  on  his  track, 
Though  old  ocean  rose  up  ravening  in  gray  and  an- 
gry wrack. 
And  bravely  beat  and  bore  up  to  the  west ; 
All  honor  to  his  spirit. 
For  the  glories  we  inherit, 
And  peace  of  mighty  slumber 
Breathe  calmly  round  his  rest ! 
Where'er  his  earthy  bed. 
About  his  pillowed  head 
Forever  beats  old  Ocean's  monotone  :  — 
For  even  from  a  child  he  loved  its  voices  wild. 
Its  splendid  throb  that  made  his  heart  its  own. 


8o  Sebastian  Cabot 


III 
I  dream  his  name,  and  there  doth  come  to  me, 
A  vision  of  league-long  breakers  landward  hurled  ; 
Of  olden  ships  far-beating  out  to  sea ; 
Of  splendid  shining  wastes  of  heaving  green 
Far-stretching  round  the  world  ; 
Of  many  voices  heard  from  many  lands, 
Torrid  and  Arctic,  Orient,  and  the  Line ; 
Of  heaving  of  vast  anchors,  vanishing  strands  ; 
And  over  all  the  wonder  and  thunder  and  wash 
Of  the  loud,  world-conquering  brine. 
Of  sky-rimmed  waste,  or  fog-enshrouded  reef, 
Where  some  mad  siren  ever  sings  the  grief 
Of  all  the  mighty  wrecks  in  that  weird  span 
Since  ocean  and  time  began. 

IV 

Venice  and  England  cradled ! 

Could  this  seaman  be 

Other  than  ocean's  child. 

With  heart  less  restless  than  that  vast  and  wild 

Great  heart  of  the  thrilling  sea  ? 

Wakened  to  her  long  thunders. 

Cradled  in  her  soft  voice. 

Could  other  voice  of  all  earth's  voices  sweet 

Make  his  stern  heart  rejoice  ? 


Sebastian  Cabot  8i 

Yea,  this  was   better   than   all,  greater  than   all  to 

him. 
Truer  than  youth's  mad  whim. 
The  only  love  of  his  youth,  the  only  lore  of  his 

age, 
To  gaze  on  her  vast  tumultuous  scroll, 
To  pore  on  her  wrinkled  page  :  — 
For  he  was  very  soul  of  her  soul, 
And  she  meet  mother  for  him. 


Over  the  hazy  distance. 
Beyond  the  sunset's  rim, 
p'orever  and  forever 
Those  voices  called  to  him. 
Westward  !  westward  !   westward ! 
The  sea  sang  in  his  head. 
At  morn  in  the  busy  harbor. 
At  nightfall  on  his  bed  — 
Westward  !   westward  !   westward  ! 
Over  the  line  of  breakers, 
Out  of  the  distance  dim  ; 
Forever  the  foam-white  fingers 
Beckoning,  beckoning  him. 


82  Sebastian  Cabot 


VI 

This  was  no  common  spirit, 
This  sailor  of  old  Bristowe  ; 
Not  one  of  the  mart-made  helots 
Such  as  the  world  doth  know ; 
But  a  bronzed  and  rugged  veteran, 
Adrift  in  the  vanguard's  flow  ; 
A  son  of  the  world's  great  highway 
Where  the  mighty  storm  winds  blow. 

VII 

All  honor  to  this  grand  old  Pilot, 

Whose  flag  is  struck,  whose  sails  are  furled, 

Whose  ship  is  beached,  whose  voyage  ended  j 

Who  sleeps  somewhere  in  sod  unknown, 

Without  a  slab,  without  a  stone. 

In  that  great  Island,  sea-impearled. 

Yea,  reverence  with  honor  blended. 

For  this  old  seaman  of  the  past. 

Who  braved  the  leagues  of  ocean  hurled. 

Who  out  of  danger  knowledge  rended. 

And  built  the  bastions,  sure  and  fast. 

Of  that  great  bridgeway  grand  and  vast 

Of  golden  commerce  round  the  world. 

All  honor !  yea,  a  day  shall  come. 

If  glory  lives  in  human  rhyme. 


Sebastian  Cabot  83 


When  our  poor  faltering  lips  are  dumb ; 
A  greater  and  more  splendid  time, 
When  larger  men  of  mightier  aim 
Shall  do  meet  honor  to  his  name. 
Yea,  honor  !  only  greatness  keeps 
Its  sanctuary  where  this  seaman  sleeps ; 
This  old  Venetian,  Briton-born, 
Who  held  of  fear  a  hero's  scorn. 
Who  nailed  his  colors  to  the  mast. 
Who  sought  in  reverence  for  the  true. 
And  found  it  in  the  rifting  blue 
Of  those  broad  furrows  of  the  vast  :  — 
Who  knew  no  honors,  held  no  state, 
But  in  his  ruggedncss  was  great. 
Who  like  some  sea-shell,  in  him  felt 
The  universe  of  ocean  dwelt. 
Whose  whole  true  being  nature  cast 
Like  his  own  ocean-spaces,  vast ! 

VIII 

Yea,  he  is  dead  ;  this  mighty  seaman  ! 

Four  long  centuries  ago. 

Beating  westward,  ever  westward, 

Beating  out  from  old  Bristowc, 

Saw  he  far  in  visions  lifted, 

Down  the  golden  sunset's  glow. 

Through  the  bars  of  twilight  rifted, 


84  Sebastian  Cabot 


All  the  glories  that  we  know. 

Beating  westward,  ever  westward. 

Over  heaving  leagues  of  brine, 

Buffeted  by  arctic  scurries, 

Languid  trade-winds  from  the  line; 

With  a  courage  heaven-gifted, 

And  a  fortitude  divine. 

Yea,  he  is  dead ;  but  who  shall  say 

That  all  the  splendid  deeds  he  wrought. 

That  all  the  lofty  truths  he  taught 

(If  truth  be  knowledge  nobly  sought). 

Are  dead  and  vanished  quite  away  ? 

Nay  nay,  he  lives  ;  and  such  as  he. 

In  every  lofty  human  dream. 

In  every  true  sublimity 

That  splendors  earth  and  makes  it  teem 

With  inward  might  and  majesty  j 

This  grand  old  Pilot  of  Bristowe, 

Incarnate,  comes  to  earth  again, 

As  when,  four  hundred  years  ago. 

He  swept  in  storm  and  shine  and  snow. 

Athwart  the  thunders  of  the  main. 

IX 

Greater  far  than  shaft  or  storied  fane. 

Than  bronze  and  marble  blent, 

Greater  than  all  the  honors  he  could  gain 


Sebastian  Cabot  85 


From  a  nation's  high  intent, 

He  sleeps  alone,  in  his  great  isle,  unknown, 

With  the  chalk-clifFs  all  around  him  for  his  mighty 

grave-yard  stone, 
And  the  league-long  sounding  roar 
Of  old  ocean,  forevermore 
Beating,  beating,  about  his  rest, 
For  fane  and  monument. 


The  World-Mother 

(Scotland) 

T)  Y  crag  and  lonely  moor  she  stands, 
-■-'      This  mother  of  half  a  world's  great  men, 
And  kens  them  far  by  sea-wracked  lands, 
Or  orient  jungle  or  western  fen. 

And  far  out  mid  the  mad  turmoil, 

Or  where  the  desert  places  keep 
Their  lonely  hush,  her  children  toil, 

Or  wrapt  in  wide-world  honor  sleep. 

By  Egypt's  sands  or  western  wave. 

She  kens  her  latest  heroes  rest, 
With  Scotland's  honor  o'er  each  grave. 

And  Britain's  flag  above  each  breast. 

And  some  at  home.  —  Her  mother  love 

Keeps  crooning  wind-songs  o'er  their  graves. 

Where  Arthur's  castle  looms  above, 
O^-  Strathy  storms  or  Solway  raves. 
86 


The  World- Mother  87 

Or  Lomond  unto  Nevis  bends 

In  olden  love  of  clouds  and  devt^; 
"Where  Trosach  unto  Stirling  sends 

Greetings  that  build  the  years  anew. 

Out  where  her  miles  of  heather  svi^eep, 

Her  dust  of  legend  in  his  breast, 
'Neath  aged  Dryburgh's  aisle  and  keep, 

Her  Wizard  Walter  takes  his  rest. 

And  her  loved  ploughman,  he  of  Ayr, 
More  loved  than  any  singer  loved 

By  heart  of  man  amid  those  rare. 

High  souls  the  world  hath  tried  and  proved  ; 

Whose  songs  arc  first  to  heart  and  tongue. 
Wherever  Scotsmen  greet  together, 

And,  far-out  alien  scenes  among, 

Go  mad  at  the  glint  of  a  sprig  of  heather. 

And  he  her  latest  wayward  child. 

Her  Louis  of  the  magic  pen, 
Who  sleeps  by  tropic  crater  piled, 

p'ar,  far,  alas,  from  misted  glen  ; 

Who  loved  her,  knew  her,  drew  her  so. 
Beyond  all  common  poet's  whim  ;  — 


88  The  World-Mother 

In  dreams  the  whaups  are  calling  low, 
In  sooth  her  heart  is  woe  for  him. 

And  they,  her  warriors,  greater  none 
E'er  drew  the  blade  of  daring  forth, 

Her  Colin  ^  under  Indian  sun, 

Her  Donald  2  of  the  fighting  North. 

Or  he,  her  greatest  hero,  he, 

Who  sleeps  somewhere  by  Nilus'  sands, 
Grave  Gordon,  mightiest  of  those  free. 

Great  captains  of  her  fighting  bands. 

Yea,  these  and  myriad  myriads  more, 

Who    stormed    the    fort    or    ploughed    the 
main, 

To  free  the  wave  or  win  the  shore. 
She  calls  in  vain,  she  calls  in  vain. 

Brave  sons  of  her,  far  severed  wide 
By  purpling  peak  or  reeling  foam ; 

From  western  ridge  or  orient  side. 

She  calls  them  home,  she  calls  them  home. 

1  Colin  Campbell,  Hero  of  Lucknow. 

2  Sir  Donald  Mackay,  first  Lord  Reay,  whose  Mackay  Dutch  regi- 
ment was  famous  in  the  thirty  years  war. 


The  World-Mother  89 


And  far,  from  east  to  western  sea, 

The  answering  word  comes  back  to  her, 
"  Our  hands  were  slack,  our  hopes  were  free. 
We  answered  to  the  blood  astir ; 

"  The  life  by  Kelpie  loch  was  dull. 

The  homeward  slothful  work  was  done, 
We  followed  where  the  world  was  full, 
To  dree  the  weird  our  fates  had  spun. 

"  We  built  the  brigg,  we  reared  the  town. 

We  spanned  the  earth  with  lightning  gleam. 
We  ploughed,  we  fought,  mid  smile  and  frown, 
Where  all  the  world's  four  corners  teem. 

*'  But  under  all  the  surge  of  life. 

The  mad  race-fight  for  mastery. 
Though  foremost  in  the  surgent  strife, 

Our  hearts  went  back,  went  back  to  thee." 

For  the  Scotsman's  speech  is  wise  and  slow, 
And  the  Scotsman's  thought  it  is  hard  to  ken, 

But  through  all  the  yearnings  of  men  that  go. 
His  heart  is  the  heart  of  the  northern  glen. 

His  song  is  the  song  of  the  windy  moor. 

And  the  humming  pipes  of  the  squirling  din  ; 


go  The  World-Mother 

And  his  love  is  the  love  of  the  shieling  door. 
And  the  smell  of  the  smoking  peat  within. 

And  nohap  how  much  of  the  alien  blood 

Is  crossed  with  the  strain  that  holds  him  fast, 

Mid  the  world's  great  ill  and  the  world's  great  good. 
He  yearns  to  the  Mother  of  men  at  last. 

For  there  's  something  strong  and  something  true 
In  the  wind  where  the  sprig  of  heather  is  blown ; 

And  something  great  in  the  blood  so  blue, 
That  makes  him  stand  like  a  man  alone. 

Yea,  give  him  the  road  and  loose  him  free. 
He  sets  his  teeth  to  the  fiercest  blast. 

For  there  's  never  a  toil  in  a  far  countrie. 
But  a  Scotsman  tackles  it  hard  and  fast. 

He  builds  their  commerce,  he  sings  their  songs. 
He  weaves  their  creeds  with  an  iron  twist. 

And  making  of  laws  or  righting  of  wrongs. 
He  grinds  it  all  as  the  Scotsman's  grist. 

Yea,  there  by  crag  and  moor  she  stands. 
This  mother  of  half  a  world's  great  men, 

And  out  of  the  heart  of  her  haunted  lands 
She  calls  her  children  home  again. 


The  World-Mother  9 1 

And  over  the  glens  and  the  wild  sea  floors 
She  peers  so  still  as  she  counts  her  cost. 

With  the  whaups  low  calling  over  the  moors, 
"Woe,  woe,  for  the  great  ones  she  hath  lost." 


The  Lazarus  of  Empire 

THE  Celt,  he  is  proud  in  his  protest, 
The  Scot,  he  is  calm  in  his  place. 
For  each  has  a  word  in  the  ruling  and  doom 
Of  the  Empire  that  honors  his  race  ; 
And  the  Englishman,  dogged  and  grim. 
Looks  the  world  in  the  face  as  he  goes. 
And  he  holds  a  proud  lip,  for  he  sails  his  own  ship. 
And  he  cares  not  for  rivals  nor  foes  :  — 
But  lowest  and  last,  with  his  areas  vast, 
And  horizon  so  servile  and  tame. 
Sits  the  poor  beggar  Colonial 
Who  feeds  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame. 

He  knows  no  place  in  her  councils. 
He  holds  no  part  in  the  word 
That  girdles  the  world  with  its  thunders 
When  the  fiat  of  Britain  is  heard  :  — 
He  beats  no  drums  to  her  battles. 
He  gives  no  triumphs  her  name. 
But  lowest  and  last,  with  his  areas  vast, 
He  feeds  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame. 
92 


The  Lazarus  of  Empire  93 

How  long,  O  how  long,  the  dishonor, 
The  servile  and  suppliant  place  ? 
Are  we  Britons  who  batten  upon  her. 
Or  degenerate  sons  of  the  race  ? 
It  is  souls  that  make  nations,  not  numbers, 
As  our  forefathers  proved  in  the  past. 
Let  us  take  up  the  burden  of  empire, 
Or  nail  our  own  flag  to  the  mast. 
Doth  she  care  for  us,  value  us,  want  us. 
Or  are  we  but  pawns  in  the  game  ; 
Where  lowest  and  last,  with  our  areas  vast. 
We  feed  on  the  crumbs  of  her  fame  ? 


In  Holyrood 

1897 

T  STAND  in  Edinburgh,  in  Holyrood, 

•*•  Where  Scotland's  Mary  flaunted  ;  iron  Knox 

came, 
With  cavernous  eyes  and  words  of  prophet-flame, 
And  broke  her  soul  as  bonds  of  brittle  wood  :  — 
And  all  stern  Scotland's  evil  and  her  good, 
Her  austere  ghosts,  her  souls  of  fiery  shame, 
Her  adamantine  passions  none  could  tame. 
Arise  anew  and  drip  in  Rizzio's  blood. 

Here  in  these  walls,  these  guilty  corridors. 

Beside  ^    that    bed    where    Elizabeth's    eyes    look 

down  ;  — 
Across  the  centuries  with  their  fading  band 
Of  angry  years  of  Presbyterian  frown,  — 
I  only  know  these  tears  ^  of  weird  remorse  ; 
The  woman  rules.     All  else  is  shifting  sand. 

1  In    Queen   Mary's    bedroom    in  Holyrood,   a  portrait  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  hangs  on  the  wall  above  the  bed. 

2  It  is  said  that  Knox,  during  this  memorable  interview,  made  the 
J^ueen  weep. 

94 


Unabsolved 

A    DRAMATIC    MONOLOGUE 

(This  poem  is  founded  on  the  confession  of  a  man 
who  went  with  one  of  the  expeditions  to  save  Sir  John 
Franklin's  party,  and  who,  being  sent  ahead,  saw  signs 
of  them,  but,  through  cowardice,  was  afraid  to  tell.) 

O  FATHER,  hear  my  tale,  then  pity  me, 
For  even  God  his  pity  hath  withdrawn. 

0  death  was  dread  and  awful  in  those  days ! 
You  prate  of  hell  and  punishment  to  come, 
And  endless  torments  made  for  those  who  sin. 
Stern    priest,   put   down   your    cross    and    hearken 

me  ;  — 

1  sec  forever  a  white  glinting  plain, 

From  night  to  night  across  the  twinkling  dark, 
A  world  of  cold  and  fear  and  dread  and  death, 
And    poor   lost    ones  who    starve   and    pinch    and 

die  ;  — 
I  could  have  saved  them  —  I  —  yea,  even  I. 
You  talk  of  hell  !      Is  hell  to  see  poor  frames. 
Wan,  leathery  cheeks,  and  dull,  despairing  eyes. 
From  whence  a  low-flamed  madness  ebbing  out, 

9S 


96  Unabsolved 


Goes  slowly  deathward  through  the  eerie  hours, 
To  hear  forever  pitiless,  icy  winds 
Feel  in  the  shivering  canvas  of  the  tent, 
With  idle,  brute  curiosity  nature  hath. 
While  out  around,  one  universe  of  death, 
Stretches  the  loveless,  hearthless  arctic  night  ? 

This  is  my  doom,  it  sitteth  by  my  side. 

And  never  leaves  me  through  the  desolate  years. 

Go,  take  your  hell  to  men  who  never  lived. 

Save  as  the  slow  world  wendeth,  sluggish,  dull. 

Even  they  must  suffer  also,  poor  bleak  ones, 

Then  is  your  feeble  comfort  nothing  worth. 

You  tell  me  to  have  hope,  God  will  forgive. 

O  Priest,  can  God  forgive  a  sin  like  mine  ? 

You  say  He  is  all-loving,  did  He  lie 

With  me  that  night  amid  the  eyeless  dark. 

And  writhe  with  me,  and  whisper,  "  Save  thyself, 

That  way  to  north  lies  cold  and  age  and  death. 

And  awful  failure  on  men's  awed  tongues. 

To  linger  years  hereafter;  Southward  lies 

Home  heat  and  love,  and  sweet,  blood-pulsing  life,  — 

Life,  with  its  morns  and  eves  and  glad  to-morrows. 

And  joy  and  hope  for  many  days  to  be  ?  " 

Did  He,  I  say,  lie  with  me  there  that  night. 
And  know  that  awful  tragedy  beyond. 


Unabsolved  97 


And  my  poor  tragedy  enacted  there  ? 

Then  must  He  feel  Him  since  as  I  have  felt, 

And  live  that  hideous  misery  in  His  heart. 

And,  knowing  this,  I  say  unto  thee,  priest, 

He  could  not  be  a  God  and  say,  forgive. 

You  plead  my  soul's  salvation  the  one  end 

And  aim  of  all  my  thought ;  then  hearken,  priest, 

For  this  my  sin  hath  made  me  more  than  wise  :  — 

That  seems  to  me  the  one  great  sin  I  sinned 

In  selling  all  to  save  mine  evil  self. 

Stay,  hearken,  priest,  and  haunt  me  not  with  hopes 
As  futile  as  those  icy-fingered  winds 
That  stirred  the  canvas  there  that  arctic  night. 
I  bid  thee  hark  and  mumble  not  thy  prayers 
Like  August  bees  heard  in  a  summer  room, 
That  drone  afar,  but  keep  them  for  the  dead. 
The  dull-cared  dead  who  sleep  and  heed  them  not. 

Then  hearken,  priest,  and  learn  thee  of  my  woe, 

For  I  have  lain  afar  on  northern  nights. 

By  star-filled  wastes,  and  conned  it  o'ei  and  o'er. 

And  thought  on  God,  and  life,  and  many  things. 

And  all  the  baffling  mystery  of  the  dark. 

And  I  have  held  that  awful  rendezvous 

Of  naked  self  with  self  alone  and  bare. 

And  knew  myself  as  men  have  never  known  ;  — 


98  Unabsolved 


Have  fought  the  duel,  flashing  hilt  to  hilt, 

And  blade  to  blade,  of  flesh  and  spirit  there, 

Until  I  lay  a  weak  and  wounded  thing. 

Like  some  poor,  mangled  bird  the  sportsman  leaves, 

Writhing  and  twisting  there  amid  the  dark. 

You  talk  of  ladders  leading  up  to  light, 
Of  windows  bursting  on  the  perfect  day, 
Of  dawns  grown  ruddy  on  the  blackest  night. 
Yea,  I  have  groped  about  the  muffled  walls, 
And  beat  my  spirit's  prison  all  in  vain. 
Only  to  find  them  shrouded  fold  on  fold ; 
And  still  the  cruel,  icy  stars  look  down. 
And  my  dread  memory  stayeth  with  me  still. 

It  was  a  strange,  mad  quest  we  went  upon. 
To  seek  the  living  in  the  lifeless  north. 
For  days  and  days  and  long,  lone,  loveless  nights 
We  set  our  faces  toward  the  arctic  sky, 
And  threaded  wastes  of  that  lone  wilderness, 
Beyond  the  lands  of  summer  and  glad  spring, 
Beyond  the  regions  kind  of  flower  and  bird. 
Past  glint  horizons  of  auroral  gleams, 
A  haunted  world  of  winter's  wizened  sleep. 
Where  death,  a  giant,  aged,  and  stark  and  wan, 
Kept  fast  the  entrance  of  those  sunless  caves 
Where  hides  the  day  beyond  the  icy  seas. 


Unabsolved  99 


Long  day  by  day  a  desolation  went 

Where  our  wan  faces  fared,  o'er  all  that  waste  j 

And  I  was  young  and  filled  with  love  of  life, 

And  fear  of  ugly  death  as  some  weird  black, 

The  enemy  of  love  and  youth  and  joy ; 

A  lonely,  ruined  bridge  at  edge  of  night. 

Fading  in  blackness  at  the  outer  end. 

And  those  were  cold,  stern  men  I  went  with  there. 

Who  held  their  lives  as  men  do  hold  a  gift 

Not  worth  the  keeping ;  men  who  told  dread  tales. 

That  made  a  madness  in  me  of  that  waste 

And  all  its  hellish,  lonely  solitude. 

And  set  my  heart  abcating  for  the  south. 

Until  that  awful  desolation  ringed 

My  reason  round,  and  shrunk  my  fearful  heart. 

Yea,  Father,  I  had  saved  them  but  for  this ;  — 

Why  did  they  send  me  on  alone,  ahead. 

Poor  me,  the  only  weak  one  of  that  band. 

Who  was  too  much  of  coward  to  show  my  fear  ? 

Why  did  life  give  me  that  mad  fear  of  death. 

To  make  me  selfish  at  the  very  last  ? 

Why  did  God  give  those  men  into  my  hand, 

And  leave  them  victim  to  a  craven  fear 

That  walked  those  lonely  wastes  in  form  of  man  ? 

No,  Father,  take  your  cross,  mine  is  a  pain 
That  only  distant  ages  can  out-burn. 


100  Unabsolved 


Forgiveness !     No,  you  know  not  what  you  say ; 
You  churchmen  mumble  words  as  charmers  do, 
And  talk  of  God  and  love  so  glib  and  pat, 
And  think  you   reach  men's  souls  and   give  them 

light. 
When  all  the  time  my  spirit  is  to  you 
A  land  unfound,  a  region  far-removed. 
Where  walk  dim  ghosts  of  thoughts  and  fears  and 

pains 
You  never  dreamed  of.     What  know  you  of  souls 
Like  this  of  mine  that  hath  girt  misery's  sum, 
And  found  the   black  with  which   God  veils   His 

face  ? 
You  say  the  church  absolves,  you  speak  of  peace  ; 
You  talk  of  what  not  even  God  can  do. 
Be  He  but  what  you  make  Him.     In  my  light, — 
And  mine  is  light  of  one  who  knows  the  case. 
The   facts,  the   reasons,  and   hath   weighed   them 

too,  — 
There  is  but  one  absolver,  the  absolved. 

For  I,  since  that  far,  fatal,  arctic  night, 
Have  been  alone  in  some  dread,  shadowy  court, 
Where  I  was  judge  and  guilty  prisoner  too. 
Words,  words  are  empty  ;  were  life  built  on  words. 
How    rich    the    poor   would   grow,  the    weak    be 
strong, 


Unabsolved  i  O  i 


The  hateful  loving,  and  the  scornful  weak  !  — 
The  king  would  be  a  peasant,  and  the  poor 
A  king  in  his  own  right ;  the  murderer,  red 
From   his   foul   guilt,  would  pass    to    God's  own 

breast. 
And  all  damned  things,  long  damned  of  earth's  con- 
sent. 
And  some  dread  law  much  older  far  than  we, 
Would  blossom  righteous  under  heaven's  face. 

Still  fared  we  north  across  that  frozen  waste 
Of  icy  horror  ringed  with  awful  night. 
To  seek  the  living  in  a  world  of  death ; 
And  as  we  fared  a  terror  grew  and  grew 
About  my  heart  like  madness,  till  I  dreamed 
A  vague  desire  to  flee  by  night  and  creep, 
By  steel-blue  windless  plain  and  haunted  wood. 
And  wizened  shore  and  headland,  once  more  south. 
There,  as  we  went,  the  days  grew  wan  and  shrunk, 
And  nights  grew  vast  and  weird  and  beautiful, 
Walled  with  flame-glories  of  auroral  light. 
Ringing  the  frozen  world  with  myriad  spears 
Of  awful  splendor  there  across  the  night. 
And  ever  anon  a  shadowy,  spectral  pack 
Of  gleaming  eyes  and  panting,  lurid  tongues 
Haunted  the  lone  horizon  toward  the  south. 


102  Unabsolved 


Then  life  ebbed  lower  in  the  bravest  heart, 
And  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  ten  more  days 
We  chance  on  nothing,  then  will  we  return, 
And  set  our  faces  once  more  to  the  south." 
For  that  dread  land  began  to  close  us  in, 
With  cold  and  hunger,  bit  at  our  poor  limbs. 
Till  life  grew  there  a  feeble,  flickering  flame. 
Amid  the  snows  and  ice-floes  of  that  land. 
Then  ten  days  crept  out  shrunk  and  gray  and  wan. 
With  nothing  but  the  lonely,  haunted  waste. 
Then  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  five  more  days  ! 
Then  parcelled  out  those  five  gray,  haggard  days, 
While  life  to  me  grew  like  an  ebbing  tide. 
That   surged  far  out   from  some  dread  death-like 

strand. 
And  horror  came  upon  me  like  the  night. 
That  seemed  to  gird  the  world  in  desolate  walls. 
Then  spake  the  leader,  "  If  in  three  more  days  !  " 

But  when  the  third  day  waned  we  came,  at  last. 
Unto  the  shores  of  some  dread,  lonely  sea. 
That  gloomed  to  north  and  night,  and  far  beyond. 
Where  ruined  straits  and  headlands  loomed  and  sank, 
There  seemed  the  awful  endings  of  the  world. 

Then  spake  the  leader,  "  Let  us  go  not  yet, 
But  stay  a  little  ere  we  turn  us  south, 


Unabsolved  103 


Perchance,  poor  souls,  they  might  be  somewhere 

here." 
And  then  to  me,  "  You  go,  for  you  are  young 
And  strong,  and  life  throbs  quickest  in  your  veins, 
And  you  have  eyes  more  strong  to  see,  for  ours 
Are  dimmed  by  the  dread  frost-mists  of  this  land; 
And  creep  out  there  beyond  yon  gleaming  ledge, 
And  bring  me  word  of  what  you  there  may  see. 

And  if  you  meet  no  sign  of  mast  or  sail. 

Or  hull  or  wreck,  or  mark  of  living  soul. 

Then  we  will  turn  our  faces  to  the  south ; 

For  this  great  ocean's  vastness  hems  us  in, 

And  death  here  nightly  creeps  from  strand  to  strand, 

And  binds  with  girth  of  black  the  gleaming  world." 

Then,  whispering  "  Madness,  madness,"  to  the  dark, 

I  crept  mc  fearful  o'er  that  gleaming  ledge. 

And  saw  but  night  and  awful  gulfs  of  dark. 

And  weird  ice-mountains  looming  desolate  there, 

And  far  beyond  the  vastness  of  that  sea. 

And  then  —  O  God,  why  died  I  not  that  hour?  — 

Amid  the  gleaming  floes  far  up  that  shore, 

So  far  it  seemed  that  man's  foot  scarce  could  go, 

The  certain,  tapering  outline  of  a  mast. 

And  one  small  patch  of  rag;   and  then  I  felt 

No  man  could  ever  live  to  reach  that  place, 


1 04  Unabsolved 


And  horror  seized  me  of  that  haunted  world, 

That  I  should  die  there  and  be  froze  for  aye, 

Amid  the  ice-core  of  its  awful  heart. 

Then  crept  I  back,  the  weak  ghost  of  a  life, 

A  miserable,  shaking,  coffined  fear. 

And  spake,  "  I  saw  but  ice  and  winds  and  dark, 

And  the  dread  vastness  of  that  desolate  sea." 

Again  he  spake,  "  Creep  out  once  more  and  look; 

Perchance  your  sight  was  misled  by  the  gleam." 

And  then  once  more  I  crept  out  on  that  ledge. 

And  saw  again  the  night  and  awful  dark. 

And  that  poor  beckoning  mast  that  haunts  me  yet ; 

And  as  I  lay  those  moments  seemed  to  grow. 

As  men  have  felt  in  looking  down  long  years. 

And  there  I  chose  'twixt  evil  and  the  good. 

And  took  the  evil  ;  then  began  my  hell. 

And  back  I  crept  with  that  black  lie  on  lips. 

And  spake  again,  "I  only  saw  the  night. 

And  those  weird  mountains  and  the  awful  deep." 

At  that  he  moaned  and  spake,  "  Poor  souls  !    poor 

souls  ! 
Then  they  are  doomed  if  ever  men  were  doomed." 
Whereat  a  sudden,  great  auroral  flame 
Filled  all  the  heaven,  lighting  wastes  and  sea. 
And  came  a  wondrous  shock  across  the  world. 
Like  sounds  of  far-off  battle  where  hosts  die, 


Unabsolved  105 


As  if  God  thundered  back  mine  awful  lie, 
And  I  fell  in  a  heap  where  all  was  black. 

When  next  I  lived,  we  were  full  three  days  south, 
And  two  had  died  upon  that  dreadful  march ; 
The  memory  came,  and  I  went  laughing  mad, 
But  kept  mine  awful  secret  to  this  hour. 

No,  priest,  you  can  do  nothing ;   pain  like  mine 
Must  smoulder  out  in  its  own  agony. 
Till  there  be  nought  but  ashes  at  the  last. 

But  something  'mid  the  pauses  of  the  dark 

Doth  teach  me  that  I  am  not  all  alone. 

For  I  have  dreamed  in  my  dread,  maddest  hour. 

An  awful  shadow,  blacker  than  my  black. 

Went  ever  with  me.      Hearken  to  me  now  : 

I  never  felt  a  hand  or  saw  a  face, 

I  never  knew  a  comfort  more  than  sleep, 

The  winters  they  are  only  barren  snows, 

And  age  is  hard,  and  death  waits  at  the  last. 

But  I  have  felt  in  some  dim,  shapeless  way, 
As  memories  long  remembered  after  youth. 
That  hack  of  all  there  is  some  mighty  will. 
Beyond  the  little  dreams  that  wc  arc  here, 


I  o6  Unabsolved 


Beyond  the  misery  of  our  days  and  years, 
Beyond  the  outmost  system's  outmost  rim, 
Where  wrinkled  suns  in  awful  blackness  swim, 
A  wondrous  mercy  that  is  working  still. 


Her  Look 

^TT^IME  may  set  his  fingers  there, 

-*-      Fix  the  smiles  that  curve  about 
Her  winsome  mouth,  and  touch  her  hair. 

Put  the  curves  of  youth  to  rout ; 
But  the  "  something  "  God  put  there. 

That  which  drew  me  to  her  first. 
Not  the  imps  of  pain  and  care, 

Not  all  sorrow's  fiends  accurst. 
Can  kill  the  look  that  God  put  there. 

Something  beautiful  and  rare, 

Nothing  common  can  destroy  ; 
Not  all  the  leaden  load  of  care, 

Not  all  the  dross  of  earth's  alloy ; 
Better  than  all  fame  or  gold, 

True  as  only  God's  own  truth, 
It  is  something  all  hearts  hold 

Who  have  loved  once  in  their  youth. 

That  sweet  look  her  face  doth  hold 
Thus  will  e\cr  he  to  me; 
107 


io8  Her  Look 

Joy  may  all  her  pinions  fold, 
Care  may  come  and  misery ; 

Through  the  days  of  murk  and  shine. 
Though  the  roads  be  foul  or  fair, 

I  will  see  through  love's  glad  eyne 
That  sweet  look  that  God  put  there. 


The  Wayfarer 

HE  woke  with  the  dawning 
Met  eyes  with  the  sun, 
And  drank  the  wild  rapture 
Of  living  begun. 

But  he  went  with  the  moment 

To  follow  the  clue, 
Ere  the  first  red  of  dawning 

Had  drunk  the  blue  dew. 

Follow  him,  follow  him. 
Where  the  world  will. 

Under  the  sunlight 
By  meadow  and  hill. 

Down  the  blue  distance, 
Round  the  world's  rim, 

Where  the  hosts  of  the  future 
Arc  horning  for  him. 

Follow  him,  call  to  him, 
Pray  to  him.  Sweet, 
109 


no  The  Wayfarer 

Tell  him  the  morning 
Is  fresh  for  his  feet ; 

Sing  him  the  rapture, 
The  glamour,  the  gleam 

Of  pearly  dew-azure 

That  curtains  the  stream  ; 

Sing  the  glad  thrushnote 
That  never  knew  pain, 

But  sing  him  and  call  him 
And  pray  him  in  vain. 

For  ere  the  red  dewdrop 
In  sunlight  was  pearled. 

He  heard  that  mad  ocean 
That  whelms  the  world. 

Yea,  heard  that  voice  calling 
Past  sunlight  and  dew, 

That  rarest,  alluringest. 
Ever  heart  knew. 

That  siren  of  sunrise. 
That  weaver  of  songs, 

Till  the  heart  of  man  hearkens 
And  gladdens  and  longs. 


The  Wayfarer  ill 

Till  o'er  the  blue  distance, 

As  opens  the  rose, 
The  yearning  impulsion 

Of  all  his  life  goes  ; 

And  many  a  dragon 

Chimera  so  grim, 
Down  the  dream  of  the  morning 

Is  vanquished  by  him. 

Yea,  sing  to  him,  call  him  through 

Heartache  in  vain. 
But  the  gladdest  day  wakened 

To  glory,  must  wane  ; 

And  the  noonday  he  longed  for 

To  fierce  light  will  burn. 
And  the  battles  he  wages 

Grow  bitter  and  stern  j 

And  the  surge  of  life  sink 

To  the  moan  of  a  bar  ; 
And  the  hopes  of  the  morning 

Grow  h(jil()w  and  far  i 

And  the  road  that  he  follows 
Less  luring  and  true. 


112  The  Wayfarer 

Till  he  longs  for  a  whifF 
Of  the  morning  he  knew. 

For  he  hears  thy  far  singing, 
That  lures  not  in  vain, 

Till  he  comes  to  thy  beauty 
Of  dawning  again. 

But  the  roads  of  returning 
Are  never  the  same 

As  the  sweet  dewy  meadows 
Of  morning  we  came. 

But  the  song  of  alluring 

Is  ever  as  true. 
To  lead  the  heart  back 

To  the  beauty  it  knew ; 

And  vain  the  mad  magic 
Where  life's  glories  burn, 

For  the  heart  of  the  yearner 
Who  longs  to  return  : 

For  he  hears  that  voice  callin^^^ 
Voiced  never  in  vain, 

To  world-heart  aweary 
For  all  dreamings  fain  ; 


The  Wayfarer  1 1 3 

And  he  hears  the  low  grasses, 

The  green  tents  of  sod, 
From  roof-trees  of  slumber. 

As  voices  of  God  j 

And  the  spinning  and  turning, 

Of  madness  amain 
Fade  out  from  his  dreaming 

As  night  from  the  pane. 

When  the  rosy-red  splendor 

In  dewdreams  impearled, 
From  ashes  of  slumber. 

Lifts  over  the  world. 

Yea,  back  from  those  echoes 

Of  bugles  that  blew. 
Heart-weary,  life-broken, 

He  wanders  to  you; 

Yea,  back  to  his  truest, 

Those  far  broken  gleams 
Of  that  rosy-red,  morning-lit 

House  of  his  dreams. 

Where  all  hours  were  splendid, 
And  all  hearts  held  true. 


114  '^^^  Wayfarer 

In  those  glory-lit  visions 
Of  beauty  and  you. 

Yea,  call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Mother  of  all  ; 
You  lit  his  youth's  torches, 

You  saw  their  flames  fall. 

You  loved  him,  upheld  him. 
This  child  of  thy  breast. 

And  now  give  him  surcease 
In  dreamings  and  rest. 

Thy  note  was  the  one  note 
He  heard  in  the  fray. 

That  bore  him  far  out 
In  the  heat  of  the  day  ; 

Thy  call  is  the  one  call 
That  beckons  him  home, 

When  day-fires  darken 
By  forest  and  foam. 

When  o'er  all  the  heartache, 
The  visions  untrue. 

Love  draws  her  dim  curtains 
Of  duskfire  and  dew. 


The  Wayfarer  115 

While  the  bells  ring  for  slumber 

As  out  of  the  deep, 
Come  pleading  those  velvet-winged 

Spirits  of  sleep. 

And  there  at  thy  doorways 

Of  slumber  he  stands, 
Like  him  of  old  Horeb, 

And  sees  his  heart's  lands; 

And  under  the  white  awe 

Of  planets  that  swim. 
Knows  dawning  and  even 

As  one  world  to  him. 


To  the  Ottawa 

OUT  of  the  northern  wastes,  lands  of  winter 
and  death, 
Regions  of  ruin  and  age,  spaces  of  solitude  lost ; 
You  wash  and  thunder  and  sweep, 
And  dream  and  sparkle  and  creep. 
Turbulent,  luminous,  large. 
Scion  of  thunder  and  frost. 

Down  past  woodland  and  waste,  lone  as  the  haunt- 
ing of  even. 
Of   shrivelled   and    wind-moaning    night    when 
Winter  hath  wizened  the  world  ; 
Down  past  hamlet  and  town 
By  marshes,  by  forests  that  frown. 
Brimming  their  desolate  banks. 
Your  tides  to  the  ocean  are  hurled. 

ii6 


Departure 


OLD  house  now  ruined,  wrecked  and  gray, 
Home  once  enshrined  of  love's  delight 
And  all  glad  promise  of  the  May, 

Now  hushed  in  shades  of  wintry  night,  — 

Once  garment  of  a  thousand  loves. 

Now  but  a  shroud  of  glooming  stone, — 

While  sad  October  moans  and  roves. 
Old  house,  old  house,  weare  alone  ! 

We  are  alone ;  yea,  you  and  I, 

Who  dreamed  old  summers  in  their  prime ; 
Now  sad  and  late,  to  see  them  die 

Along  this  ruined  verge  of  time. 

Old  rooms  now  empty,  once  so  bright,  — 
Staircases  climbed  of  gladdening  feet. 

Dark  windows  erstwhile  filled  with  light 
Where  now  but  rains  of  autumn  beat :  — 

Where  now  but  lorn  months  call  and  call 
And  sea  and  gust  and  night  complain, — 


1 1 8  Departure 

With  ghost-boughs  shadowing  on  the  wall, 
Or  dead  vines  knocking  at  the  pane. 

Old  place,  whose  ceilings,  walls  and  floors 

Still  redolent  of  love  and  May ; 
Once  more,  once  more  I  leave  your  doors. 

Into  the  night  I  take  my  way. 

Huge  yawning  hearths,  once  flaming  bright 
On  many  a  well-loved  face  and  form 

Long  gathered  out  unto  the  night 

To  meet  the  vastness  and  the  storm, — 

Into  the  night ;  where  I,  too,  go. 

Beyond  your  sheltering  walls  and  doors ; 

Where  death's  October  drives  his  woe 
Over  a  thousand  midnight  moors. 

Beyond  your  sheltering,  where  I  beat 

To  sleep  with  stars  of  dark  o'ergleamed, 

Or  breast  the  night  of  moan  and  sleet 

To  meet  that  morn  a  world  hath  dreamed. 

Hath  dreamed  ?   Hope-hungering  heart  hath  read. 
And  carolled  morning-lifted  lark  ! 

Yea,  back  of  all  this  muffled  dread 

Perchance  some  splendor  rifts  the  dark. 


Departure  1 19 

Yea,  though  no  magic  reach  its  gleams, 
Nor  heart  of  doubting  prove  it  true. 

Old  house,  beloved,  of  my  dead  dreams. 
While  I  go  forth  from  love  and  you. 


Phaethon 

T  PHAETHON:  dwelling  in  that  golden  house, 
-*■   Which  Hephaistos  did  build  for  my  great  sire, 
Old  Helios,  king  of  glowing  heaven  and  day; 
Knowing  this  life  but  mortal  in  its  span. 
Hedged  in  by  puling  youth  and  palsied  age. 
Where  poor  men  crawl  like  insects,  knowing  pain 
And  mighty  sorrow  to  the  gates  of  death ; 
Besought  the  god  my  father  by  his  love. 
To  grant  me  that  which  I  did  long  for  most 
Of  all  things  great  in  earth  and  heaven  and  sea. 
The  which  he  granting  in  his  mighty  love, — 
Of  all  things  splendid  under  the  splendid  sky 
Built  of  old  by  toil  of  ancient  gods, 
To  me  the  dearest ;  for  one  round  golden  day, 
To  stand  in  his  great  chariot  built  of  fire. 
And  chase  the  rosy  hours  from  dawn  to  dusk. 
Guiding  his  fleeting  steeds  o'er  heaven's  floors. 
He  gave  to  me.  —  No  god  yet  brake  his  word.  — 
Speaking  to  me  in  sorrow  :   "  O  my  son. 
Know  what  thy  foolish  pride  hath  made  for  thee. 
That  mortal  life  which  is  to  men  a  span. 
From  childhood  unto  youth,  and  manhood's  prime. 


Phaethon  1 21 

Reaching  on  out  to  happy  olden  age, 
For  thee  must  shrink  into  one  woeful  day. 
For,  O  my  son,  impetuous  in  thy  pride. 
Who  would  be  as  the  gods  and  ape  their  ways. 
And  sacrilegious  leave  thy  mortal  bounds, — 
Know  thou  must  die  upon  that  baleful  day. 
That  terrible  day  of  days  thou  mountest  up 
To  ride  that  chariot  never  mortal  rode. 
And  drive  those  steeds  that  never  man  hath  driven. 
Then  I  :  "  My  father,  know  me,  thine  own  son. 
Better  to  me  to  live  one  day  a  god. 
Going  out  in  some  great  flame  of  death. 
Than  live  this  weary  life  of  common  men. 
Misunderstood,  misunderstanding  still. 
Half  wakeful,  moving  dimly  in  a  dream, 
Confused,  phantasmic,  men  call  history  ; 
Chasing  the  circles  of  the  perishing  suns. 
The  summers  and  dim  winters,  hating  all, 
Hcart-eatcn  for  a  longing  ne'er  attained. 
Despising  all  things  named  of  earth  or  heaven. 
Or  mortal  birth  that  they  should  ever  be ; 
Knowing  within  this  mystery  of  my  being. 
This  curbed  heredity,  lies  a  latent  dream 
Of  some  old  vanished,  banished,  lease  of  being, 
When  life  was  life  and  man's  soul  lived  its  hour, 
Uncurbed,  uncabincd,  like  the  mighty  gods. 
Vast,  splendid,  capable,  and  heraclean, 


122  Phaethon 

To  drain  the  golden  beaker  of  his  days." 

Thus  I  :  "  My  father,  I  am  over  weary, 

Chained  in  this  summer-plot  of  circumstance. 

Beaten  by  fearful  custom,  childish,  chidden, 

Hounded  of  cruel  wolves  of  superstition, 

And  rounded  by  a  petty  wall  of  time. 

Plodding  the  dreary  years  that  wend  their  round. 

Aping  the  sleeping  sensual  life  of  beasts. 

Fearful  of  all  things,  dreading  mostly  death, 

Past  pain  and  age  and  all  their  miseried  end. 

Where  all  must  rot,  who  smile  and  weep  and  sleep, 

And  be  a  part  of  all  this  grim  corruption. 

Nay,  better  to  me  than  the  long-measured  draught, 

Trickling  out  through  many  anxious  years, 

Iron-eaten,  haggard,  to  the  place  of  death  — 

To  drain  my  flagon  of  life  in  one  glad  draught,  — 

To  live,  to  love,  aspire,  and  dare  all  things ; 

Be  all  I  am  and  others  ought  to  be, 

Real  man  or  demi-god,  to  blossom  my  rose. 

To  scale  my  heights,  to  live  my  vastest  dream. 

To  climb,  to  be,  and  then,  if  chance  my  fate. 

To  greatly  fall. 

Then  my  great  father,  laden 
With  woe  divine  :  "  My  son,  take  thou  thy  way  ; 
As  thou  hast  chosen,  thus  't  will  be  to  thee ; " 
And  passing,  darkened  down  his  godlike  face. 
And  shadowed  splendor  thence  forevermore. 


Phaethon  123 

'T  was  night  ambrosial  down  the  orient  meads, 
With  stars  like  winking  pearls  far-studding  heaven, 
And  dews  all  glorious  on  the  bending  stem, 
Odorous,  passionate  as  the  rose  of  sleep 
Half-budded  on  the  throbbing  heart  of  night, 
And  in  the  east  a  glowing  sapphire  gloomed ; 
When  I  awoke  and  lifted  up  mine  eyes. 
And  saw  through  rose  and  gold  and  vermeil  dyes. 
And  splendid  mists  of  azure  hung  with  pearl. 
Half-hid,  half-seen,  as  life  would  apprehend. 
As  in  a  sleep,  the  presence  of  dim  death 
And  fate  and  terrible  gods,  the  car  of  day. 

Like  morn  within  the  morning,  glad,  it  hung. 
Light  hid  in  light,  swift  blinding  all  who  saw. 
Dazzled,  its  presence ;  motionless  though  vibrate, 
Where  it  did  swing  athwart  the  deep-welled  night. 
The  heart  of  morning  in  the  folds  of  dark. 
Pulsating  sleep,  and  conquering  death  with  life ; 
So  glowed  its  glory,  folded,  cloud  in  cloud. 
Gold  within  azure,  purple  shut  in  gold. 
The  bud  of  morning  pulsing  ere  it  break. 
And  spill  its  splendors  many  vermeil-dyed, 
'Reddening  Ocean  to  his  outmost  rim. 

Here  charmed  dreams  and  drowsed  magic  hung. 
And  winged  hopes  and  rosy  joys  afloat 


1 24  Phaethon 

Filled  all  the  air,  and  I  was  quick  aware 
That  this  was  life,  and  this  mine  hour  supreme, 
To  seize  and  act  and  be  one  with  the  gods. 
So  dreamed  I  reckless  when  to  think,  to  act, 
And  moved,  elate,  with  swift  life-flaming  step 
Athwart  the  meadow's  budding  asphodels, 
Song  on  my  lip,  and  life  at  heart  and  eye. 
Exultant,  breathing  flame  of  pride  and  power. 

Joy  rose  and  sang,  a  bird,  across  the  fields, 

Hope's  rosy  wings  shot  trembling  to  the  blue. 

And  Courage  with  dauntless  steps  before  me  went. 

Brushing  the  veils  of  fierce  cobwebby  fires. 

And  there,  before  me,  sprawled  grim  ancient  Power, 

A  hideous  ethiope,  huge  in  sodden  sleep. 

The  golden  reins  clutched  in  his  titan  hands. 

I  snatched,  leaped,  shouted ;  morning  rose  in  flame, 

And  ashweed  paled  to  lily,  lily  blushed 

To  ruddy  crocus,  crocus  flamed  to  rose, 

And  out  of  all,  borne  on  the  floors  of  light, 

I  floated,  gloried,  up  the  orient  walls. 

And  all  things  woke,  and  sang  of  conquering  day. 

Higher,  yet  higher,  out  of  fiery  mists. 
Filling  those  meadows  of  the  dew-built  dawn, 
Gloried  and  glorying,  power  clutched  in  my  hand. 
Wreathed  about  in  terrible  splendors,  I  drave. 


Phaethon  125 

Glowing,    the    dawn's    gold    coursers,    champing 

steam 
Of  snow  and  pearly  foam  from  golden  bridles, 
Forged  in  blue  eidolon  forges  of  the  night. 
Beaten  on  steely  anvils  of  the  stars. 
These,  champing,  reared  their  fetlocks ;  breathing 

flame, 
In  red,  dew-draining  lances,  thundered  on, 
'Whelming  night,  as  golden  stair  by  stair 
They  climbed  the  glimmering  bridgeway  of  the  day. 
Far  under,  wreathed  in  mists,  old  ocean  swayed  ; 
And,  cyclcps-like,  the  bearded  mountains  hung. 
Vast  shining  rivers  with  their  brimming  floors 
And  broad  curved  courses  gleamed  and  glanced  and 

shone. 
And  loneliness  and  gloom  and  gray  despair 
With  sombre  hauntings  fled  to  shuddering  night 
J^idden  in  caves  and  coral  glooms  of  seas. 

Low  down  the  east  the  morn's  ambrosial  meads 
Sank  in  soft  splendors.     Sphering  out  below. 
Gilded  in  morning,  anchored  the  patient  earth, 
Mountain  and  valley,  ocean  and  wide  plain. 
Opening    to    dawn's    young    footsteps    where    we 

wheeled. 
And  blossomed  wide  the  rosebud  (jf  the  day. 
Glory  was  mine,  but  greater,  sense  of  power, 


126  Phaethon 

Nor  marred  by  fear,  as  loftier  we  climbed, 

With  glinting  hoofs,  that  clanged  the  azure  bridge 

That  arched  from  dawning  up  to  flaming  noon. 

Dauntless  my  soul,  and  fiery-glad  my  heart. 

And  "  vastness,"  "  vastness,"  sang  through  all  my 

being. 
As  gloved  with  adamant  I  guided  on 
The  day's  red  coursers  up  their  flaming  hill, 
To  reach  the  mighty  keystone  of  the  day. 

All  things  conspired  to  build  my  upward  road  : 
The  fitful  winds  of  morning,  the  soft  clouds. 
That  fleece-like  swept  my  cheek,  the  azure  glint 
Of  ocean  swaying,  restless,  on  his  rim. 
Where  slept  the  continents  like  a  serpent  curled 
In  sleep,  leviathan,  huge,  about  the  world. 

Then  sudden  all  my  waking  turned  to  dream, 
A  madness  wherein,  hideous,  all  things  hung. 
Thought  fled  confused,  and  awful  apprehension 
Shadowed  my  spirit,  power  and  reason  fled ; 
And,    maddening,    day's    red    coursers    thundered 

on. 
Uncurbed,  unguided  by  my  palsied  hand. 
Then  with  loud  ruin,  blundering  from  the  bridge. 
Through  space  went  swaying,  now  high  up,  now 

down. 


Phaethon  127 

Scattering  conflagration  and  fierce  death 
O'er  earth's  shrunk  verges  where  their  scorchings 
scarred. 

Time  fled  in  terror,  forests  shrivelled  up, 
Ocean  drew  back  in  shudderings  to  his  caves, 
Huo-e  mountains  shook  and  rumbled  to  their  base. 
Great  streams  dried  up,  old  cities  smoked  and  fell. 
And  all  life  met  confusion  and  despair. 
And  dread  annihilation. 

Then  the  Gods, 
Pitying  wrecked  nature,  in  their  sudden  vengeance. 
Me,  impious,  hurled  from  out  my  dizzying  height. 
Time    vanished,    reason    swooned,    then    left    her 

throne, 
And  darkness  wrapt  me  as  I  shuddering  fell. 
Oblivion-clouded,  to  the  plunging  seas. 
Ocean  received  me,  folding  in  her  deeps. 
Cooling  and  emerald.      Here  in  coral  dreams 
I  rest  and  cure  mc,  never  wholly  waking, 
p'illed  with  one  splendor,  fumbling  in  a  dream. 
As  waves  do  fumble  all  about  a  cave. 
For  one  clear  memory  of  that  one  high  day. 

I  failed,  was  mortal  ;   where  1  climbed  1  fell. 
But  all  else  little  matters  ;   life  was  mine, 
I  dreamed,  I  dared,  I  grappled  with,  I  fell  ; 


128  Phaethon 

And  here  I  live  it  over  in  my  dreams. 
All  things  may  pass,  decline,  and  come  to  naught. 
Death  Vhelm  life  as  day  engulfed  in  dark, 
But  I  have  greatly  lived,  have  greatly  dared, 
And  death  will  never  wholly  wrap  me  round 
And  black  me  in  its  terrors.     I  am  made 
One  with  the  future,  dwelling  in  the  dreams 
And  memories  dread  of  envious  gods  and  men. 


The  Humming  Bee 

GLAD  music  of  the  summer's  heart, 
Jargoning  from  flower  to  flower, 
A  part  of  each  unconscious  hour 
Until  the  happy  days  depart  ! 

Thou  dream-like  toiler  of  the  fields  ! 

Each  honeyed  spot  thou  knowest  well 
Where  Nature's  heart  her  sweetness  yields. 

Some  ruined  trunk  thy  citadel  ; 
There  buildcst  a  home  for  Winter's  hour 

In  some  lone,  sunlight-haunted  place, 
When  all  the  year  is  at  its  power, 
And  June's  high-tide  on  bank  and  bower 

Mirrors  in  blossoms  Nature's  face. 

At  early  morn  by  breathing  wood. 

Or  in  some  dewy  clover  dell, 
Tuning  the  young  day's  solitude, — 

Or  dcjwn  the  slumbrous  afternoon. 
Rich-freighted,  wingest  thy  tuneful  way. 

Self-musing,  murmurous,  musical ; 
129 


130  The  Humming  Bee 

Amid  the  whole  world's  dreamy  swoon, 

Sole  voice  of  all  the  drowsed  day. 
Until  the  gradual  shadows  fall :  — 

Then,  by  some  lonely  pasture-fell 
At  ruddy  eve  when  homeward  come 
Past  deepening  shade  or  fading  ray 
The  weary  children  of  the  day. 

I  hear  thy  joyous,  drowsy  hum, 
Till  stars  peep  out  and  woods  breathe  low. 

And  sounds  of  human  toil  grow  dumb. 
And  Night,  the  blessed,  comes  apace. 
Bending  to  Earth's  her  cooling  face. 

While  airs  across  the  dark  outblow: 
Then  rocked  on  some  glad  blossom's  breast. 

Thou  dreamest  to  rest. 

When  Summer  wanes  to  Autumn's  age. 
And  come  the  days  of  fate  and  rage, 

O  happy  Humming  Bee  ! 
Then  wilt  thou  sink  to  wintry  sleep. 
When  storms  are  hoarse  along  the  deep, 

In  hushed  tranquillity. 
No  more  wilt  wind  thy  subtle  horn 
By  dreamy  eve  or  misty  morn. 
When  trees  are  leafless,  pastures  shorn. 

Ah  me  !  ah  me ! 
Could  we,  like  thee,  go  down  the  days 


The  Humming  Bee  131 

Of  summer  hush  to  autumn  haze. 
Housing,  with  what  we  built  before, 
The  gold  of  all  our  memory's  store 
And  garnered  thought ; 
So  when  the  bleak  December's  hate 
Beat  round  the  bastions  of  our  fate, 
We,  wrapt  in  wealth  of  honeyed  dreams 
Of  kindlier  visions,  far-off  streams, 
Might  heed  it  not. 


The  Children  of  the  Foam 

OUT  forever  and  forever, 
Where  our  tresses  glint  and  shiver 

On  the  icy  moonlit  air ; 
Come  we  from  a  land  of  gloaming, 
Children  lost,  forever  homing. 

Never,  never  reaching  there; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  faster. 
Driven  by  our  demon  master. 

The  wild  wind  in  his  despair; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home. 
Wan,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

In  the  wild  October  dawning. 
When  the  heaven's  angry  awning 

Leans  to  lakeward,  bleak  and  drear; 
And  along  the  black,  wet  ledges, 
Under  icy,  caverned  edges. 

Breaks  the  lake  in  maddened  fear; 
And  the  woods  in  shore  are  moaning ; 
Then  you  hear  our  weird  intoning, 

Mad,  late  children  of  the  year; 
132 


The  Children  of  the  Foarn  1 33 

Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Lost,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

All  gray  day,  the  black  sky  under. 
Where  the  beaches  moan  and  thunder. 

Where  the  breakers  spume  and  comb, 
You  may  hear  our  riding,  riding. 
You  may  hear  our  voices  chiding. 

Under  glimmer,  under  gloam  ; 
Like  a  far-off  infant  wailing. 
You  may  hear  our  hailing,  hailing. 

For  the  voices  of  our  home; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Haunted  children  of  the  foam. 

And  at  midnight,  when  the  glimmer 
Of  the  moon  grows  dank  and  dimmer, 

Then  we  lift  our  gleaming  eyes  ; 
Then  you  see  our  white  arms  tossing. 
Our  wan  breasts  the  moon  embossing. 

Under  gloom  of  lake  and  skies; 
You  may  hear  our  mournful  chanting. 
And  our  voices  haunting,  haunting. 

Through  the  night's  mad  melodies  ; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  home. 
Wild,  white  children  of  the  foam. 


134  ^'^^  Children  of  the  Foam 

There,  forever  and  forever, 
Will  no  demon-hate  dissever 

Peace  and  sleep  and  rest  and  dream; 
There  is  neither  fear  nor  fret  there 
When  the  tired  children  get  there, 

Only  dews  and  pallid  beam 
Fall  in  gentle  peace  and  sadness 
Over  long  surcease  of  madness. 

From  hushed  skies  that  gleam  and  gleam 
In  the  longed-for,  sought-for  home 
Of  the  children  of  the  foam. 

There  the  streets  are  hushed  and  restful, 
And  of  dreams  is  every  breast  full, 

With  the  sleep  that  tired  eyes  wear ; 
There  the  city  hath  long  quiet 
From  the  madness  and  the  riot. 

From  the  failing  hearts  of  care; 
Balm  of  peacefulness  ingliding, 
Dream  we  through  our  riding,  riding, 

As  we  homeward,  homeward  fare; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  home. 
Wild,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

Under  pallid  moonlight  beaming, 
Under  stars  of  midnight  gleaming, 
And  the  ebon  arch  of  night; 


The  Children  of  the  Foam  135 

Round  the  rosy  edge  of  morning, 
You  may  hear  our  distant  horning, 

You  may  mark  our  phantom  flight ; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  faster. 
Driven  by  our  demon  master, 

Under  darkness,  under  light ; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Wild,  white  children  of  the  foam. 


How   One  Winter   Came 

IN    THE    LAKE    REGION 

FOR  weeks  and  weeks  the  autumn  world  stood 
still, 
Clothed  in  the  shadow  of  a  smoky  haze ; 
The  fields  were  dead,  the  wind  had  lost  its  will, 
And  all  the  lands  were  hushed  by  wood  and  hill, 
In  those  gray,  withered  days. 

Behind  a  mist  the  blear  sun  rose  and  set, 

At  night  the  moon  would  nestle  in  a  cloud ; 

The  fisherman,  a  ghost,  did  cast  his  net ; 

The  lake  its  shores  forgot  to  chafe  and  fret, 
And  hushed  its  caverns  loud. 

Far  in  the  smoky  woods  the  birds  were  mute, 

Save    that    from    blackened    tree    a  jay    would 

scream, 

Or  far  in  swamps  the  lizard's  lonesome  lute 

Would  pipe  in  thirst,  or  by  some  gnarled  root 

The  tree-toad  trilled  his  dream. 
136 


Hovj  One  Winter  Came  137 

From  day  to  day  still  hushed  the  season's  mood, 
The  streams  stayed  in  their  runnels  shrunk  and 
dry; 
Suns  rose  aghast  by  wave  and  shore  and  wood, 
And  all  the  world,  with  ominous  silence,  stood 
In  weird  expectancy : 

When  one  strange  night  the  sun  like  blood  went 
down. 
Flooding  the  heavens  in  a  ruddy  hue ; 
Red  grew  the   lake,   the   sere   fields    parched    and 

brown. 
Red  grew  the  marshes  where  the  creeks  stole  down. 
But  never  a  wind-breath  blew. 

That  night  I  felt  the  winter  in  my  veins, 

A  joyous  tremor  of  the  icy  glow  ; 
And  woke  to  hear  the  north's  wild  vibrant  strains. 
While  far  and  wide,  by  withered  woods  and  plains, 

Fast  fell  the  driving  snow. 


ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED 
BY   H.   O.    HOUGHTON   AND   CO. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


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